


In the Morning of the Times

by Arrested



Series: The Day-Dream [1]
Category: Ivanhoe, Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anachronistic Social Attitudes, Angst, Child Abuse, Dom/sub Undertones, Healing Sex, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Slave, Middle Ages, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Slavery, Slow Build, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 65
Words: 152,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4424519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrested/pseuds/Arrested
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oscar is a thief making his way on the streets of London, until his most ambitious scheme lands him in the dungeon after he is caught stealing from the king himself. Saved from the chopping block but sentenced to service, he is slowly drawn in by his mysterious jailer Wamba, whose smile hides a multitude of secrets. As their relationship grows closer, shadows of Wamba’s past emerge, threatening them both, and Oscar must choose between the loyalties of his old life and the promise of a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally inspired by Sir Walter Scott’s _Ivanhoe_ , this work borrows characters and backstory from that novel. A passing familiarity with it is helpful but by no means required to follow the events of this story.
> 
> Caveat lector:  
> 1\. This is a work of historical fiction that has not been rigorously researched. Liberties have been taken with every aspect of medieval life and the sensibilities of the people of that time.  
> 2\. This is a work of slash fiction. The central romantic relationships explored are all between two men.  
> 3\. This work is fairly dark. It contains multiple references to and sometimes graphic descriptions of abuse, torture, murder, and rape.
> 
> This story is my original work. All rights are reserved.

Oscar ran.

His lungs burned as they heaved out great clouds of white breath, and his legs pumped desperately to the beat of his racing heart. He rounded the corner at the head of the morning market, grasping at a wooden post supporting a canopy over baskets of bread as the thin soles of his shoes skidded on the frosted dirt of the road. The post took his weight, and he swung around to dash between the bread stall and a cart piled high with winter cabbages.

He heard his pursuers make the turn just behind him, the ominous jangle of mail and heavy thump of boots punctuated by their breathless profanities. He did not dare look back, but pelted ahead.

“Stop! Thief!” The shout startled a woman in his path. He dodged to the side as she turned, narrowly avoiding collision but unable to evade her scarf which whipped him across the face and momentarily blinded him. He clawed it away from his eyes, to witness the alarming sight of two city watchmen bearing down fast. He looked around desperately, and finally spotted a promising avenue of escape in an alley blocked by a wall of barrels, stacked two and three high.

He threw himself into the narrow gap between the buildings and scrambled up onto a covered well, hands grasping at the icy wood to push himself upright. He took a deep breath and leapt, catching the top of the highest barrels while his feet scrabbled to propel him up and over. From there it was an easy hop down to the ground. He could hear the soldiers cursing him from the other side, but it did not sound like they were trying to follow.

Oscar leaned heavily against the cold stone wall beside him, eyes closed and head tossed back, trying to catch his breath. He gave himself only a few moments to allow his chest to stop heaving and his heart to calm before he set off at a trot, turning his steps toward the river.

A few minutes later his destination came into view. The Gull and Anvil was nearly deserted at this early hour of the morning, the lantern dangling beneath the faded tavern sign dark and the front door barred. Oscar slipped around the side and carefully pushed open the narrow rear door. It groaned on its hinges, surprisingly loud in the dawn quiet. He closed the door quickly behind him, shutting out the cold, and padded through the storeroom toward the common room. As expected, Cara was still there, wiping down the bar. She wore her frayed green work shift and her auburn hair was twisted up in its usual haphazard arrangement beneath a kerchief. Oscar sidled up to the bar and reached into his tunic to retrieve his hard-won bounty.

The leather purse clinked heavily as it landed on the bar. Cara jumped, whirling around with one hand flying to her throat.

“Oh!” she gasped, wide green eyes narrowing as she caught sight of her visitor. “Oscar! What do you mean scaring me half to death?”

“Sorry,” he shrugged. His smirk was entirely devoid of remorse. “I wasn’t sure if you were alone.”

“Well, I am,” she huffed, swatting at him with her rag. She threw it to the bar and gestured at the purse. “What’s this?”

“A donation. From a sympathetic priest.”

Cara frowned. “I thought we talked about this. I don’t like you stealing for my sake. You’re going to get caught.”

“They can’t catch me.” Oscar jumped up to sit on the bar and gave her his cheekiest grin. “They haven’t managed it yet.”

“Yes, but if you keep on like this it’s only a matter of time.” She glanced away from him. “I’ve lost both my parents now, Oscar. I can’t lose you, too. What will I do if they execute you for thievery?”

“I’m trying to help you, Cara. That’s why I’m doing this.” He reached out a hand and gripped her shoulder. She gave him a small smile.

They stayed like that for a quiet moment, until he turned the comforting touch into a gentle shove. “Go on, then. Let’s see how generous the old father was feeling this time.”

He watched, kicking his feet back against the side of the bar, as she picked apart the knotted leather thong holding the purse closed and turned its contents out onto the pitted wood. His heart began to sink as he spied only a single bright shilling and a few pennies amidst a pile of farthings.

“Not so generous after all.”

Cara laid a comforting hand on his knee. “It’s better than nothing. As much as I hate you stealing, I can’t deny that.”

She went into the storeroom and emerged a moment later with a heavy earthenware jar that had once held tallow. It now concealed something far more precious.

Cara pulled off the lid and began scooping the coins off of the bar and dropping them into the jar. Each handful chimed cheerfully as it was added to the precious hoard.

“How close are you?”

“I think we might be getting close,” she murmured doubtfully, peering down into the jar. She shook it, making the coins inside dance musically.

“How much more do you need?”

Cara tilted her head, considering. “About twice what’s here now, I think.”

“When?”

“The tax collector is coming back on Friday.”

“That’s only three days from now.”

They shared a moment of silence, contemplating that. It had taken nearly two months to scrape together the sum that was in the jar already, between Cara working the tavern with only Oscar for help and the spoils of his increasingly risky pick-pocketing.

“Your uncle?” he ventured, though it was a hollow hope.

“Refuses to budge. I talked to him again yesterday. He’ll only give me the money for the taxes if I hand over the tavern to him.”

“He’s a villain.” Oscar scowled over Cara’s shoulder at the bottles on the wall.

“He’s a businessman,” Cara sighed, resigned. “He cares nothing for family. He wouldn’t even lend me the money to bury his own brother. I’ll be lucky if he lets me stay on as a tavern wench when this is over.”

“Don’t say that. We’re not done yet. I’ll figure something out.”

Cara smiled at him, genuine fondness in her bright eyes. “I know you’ll try, Oscar. Thank you.”

He swallowed hard, and nodded.

“Just, please don’t do anything too risky. I meant it when I said that I don’t know what I would do without you.”

She hefted the jar in both arms and went to return it to its hiding place in the storeroom. Oscar dropped to his feet and picked up her rag, quickly finishing the job of mopping up the last sticky puddles of spilled ale.

“Are you sleeping here?” Cara asked as she emerged from the storeroom.

“Might as well. If I go home now after a whole night out, Emmett will have my hide.”

Cara laughed. “You know your brother is strict with you because he loves you. I can't blame him. You’re a born troublemaker.”

Oscar just snorted and threw the rag at her. Cara caught it and tossed it atop the pile of soiled linens in the storeroom.

“Come on, then.”

Oscar followed her up the narrow wooden stairs into the garret room above. A thin straw mattress was tucked up beneath the thatched slant of the roof, leaving just enough space for a small table with a wooden bowl of water and a tiny polished steel mirror that had been a wedding gift for Cara’s mother. Oscar broke the ice atop the bowl with a sharp rap of his knuckles. He quickly splashed his face and arms with the frigid water. It dripped from his nose, distorting the wavering reflection of his unruly black hair and bright blue eyes. Cara shoved him aside, handing him a rag to dry his face. She had changed into a threadbare gray shift, and her hair was loose. Her green dress was folded carefully at the foot of the bed with her kerchief laid on top.

Oscar shed his own tunic and quickly dove under the single woolen blanket on the bed. He held it up for Cara to slide in beside him.

Light seeped in through the straws of the thatching, but Oscar's long night and harrowing dawn chase were catching up with him. His muscles relaxed at last with the warmth of his friend’s body beside him and the quiet sounds of the city waking outside.

He slept.


	2. Chapter 2

It was late in the afternoon by the time Oscar left the Gull and Anvil. He strolled through the market, in no hurry to return home. The usual bustle was tapering off as evening began to set in, most of the day’s trade settled. He kicked at a stone and watched a lurking cat skitter from its path, casting a baleful glare in Oscar’s direction.

He palmed a withered apple from a bare stall while the merchant was distracted packing away his remaining stock, and kept it carefully tucked against his leg until he had turned the next corner. When he was certain he was out of sight, he tossed it into the air and caught it with a flourish before he sank his teeth into the shriveled flesh. Even dry and withered from months in a cellar, it was still bright and tart on his tongue, a far sight more appealing than the bland porridge that was sure to await him in his brother's house. He savored it as he walked, and pitched the core into an alley as he turned into the churchyard.

“Oscar!” He spun around at the shout, toward a bonfire throwing heat across the square. The light turned the figures around the fire into dark silhouettes and he had to squint to see who hailed him.

“Simon? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me, you idiot! Come over here.”

Simon’s unruly shock of sandy hair and permanent smirk grew clear as he approached, and he was not alone. The whole little gang was there, the shadows resolving into the familiar bulk of Milo and the angular sharpness of Raff. They were all his childhood friends. The four of them had spent hours play-fighting with swords made from sticks and wrestling in the dirt until their mothers called them in for the evening. The nature of that friendship had changed when a sudden fever took both of Oscar’s parents in the winter of his sixth year. His brother Emmett, ten years his senior, had taken over his father’s workshop and the responsibility of raising Oscar, and had proven himself increasingly intolerant of the childish mischief that became the main occupation of Oscar’s little gang of friends.

Then Oscar had met Cara. She had lost her mother the same winter he lost his parents, and he had found that she understood him better than any of the others. After that, more of his time was spent with her in her family’s tavern, under the watchful eye of her father. He still spent the odd afternoon with Simon and his gang, most often when they needed someone to act as a lookout for one of their more daring pranks. He was pleased to see them, and offered a smile to show it.

“Do I even need to ask where you’ve been?” Simon said with a wink.

Oscar rolled his eyes and held his hands out to the fire, waiting for the inevitable jibe.

“Poor Cara. She’s never going to find a respectable suitor with you hanging around all the time like a bad smell.”

“If she doesn’t want me around, she can tell me so herself," was Oscar's retort. "Or is she sharing confidences with you now?”

Simon widened his eyes to signal his innocence, but the effect was ruined by the smirk that he could not quite contain.

“I would never try to stand between you two lovebirds. It's lucky for you that Cara doesn’t have a father anymore to force you to the altar. All the fun and no need to worry about the consequences.”

Milo and Raff guffawed. Before he could think, Oscar had turned and shoved Simon hard in the chest.

“Watch what you say,” he growled.

“Whoa there!” Raff stepped forward, his face serious. He threw an arm between them and watched Oscar with wary eyes. Behind Simon, Milo was standing more alert, ready to intervene in a fight.

Oscar was rarely at odds with his friends, but he could not let them mock Cara or the loss she had suffered. They did not know about her troubles, or how close she was to losing everything, but they should have known better than to slander her so openly.

Slowly, he lowered his arms and stepped back. Simon tilted his head as he regarded Oscar.

“You’re so tense, Oscar. Obviously, you need to have some fun! Do you want to know what we were just talking about?”

Raff scoffed. “Madness. That’s what we were talking about.”

“Another prank?” Oscar asked, intrigued despite the lingering anger. It was weeks since he had enjoyed any sort of diversion, and he was itching for a touch of pure mischief.

“Simon saw them changing the locks on the lower east gate of the castle.” Milo said.

“So?”

“It was Wymar fitting the new lock,” Simon told him gleefully, shifting his weight rapidly from foot to foot in his excitement. “You know. The locksmith whose master mold we stole last summer.”

Oscar stared at the fire for a dumb moment before the realization set in. He turned to look incredulously at them.

“You mean to tell me you have a key to the castle? The king’s tower?”

“That's the one!” Simon cackled.

Milo spoke up again. “My uncle Rolf worked on the masonry repairs last year. He said the east gate leads into the vaults. Where they keep the crown’s gold.”

“You can’t actually be suggesting…”

Oscar paused, a flash of blinding clarity rendering him momentarily mute. There was coin in the vaults. Coin enough to pay the tax collector and take care of any number of other pressing concerns as well. That treasure was the answer he had been looking for.

His sharpened gaze fell on Simon. “When are we going?”

“What?” Simon asked with a laugh. “What do you mean?”

“When are we going to rob the castle?”

“Are you serious?” Raff said. “We’re not.”

“Why not?” Oscar rounded on his friend, knowing that he must look a touch crazed but unable to care.

“Because it’s too dangerous!” Raff shouted, as though Oscar were deaf or dull-witted.

“I’ll do it then,” he said simply.

Simon raised a doubtful brow. “By yourself?”

Oscar shrugged. “It's better that way, isn’t it? It’ll be much easier for one person to sneak in than a group. You just create a diversion for the guards, and I’ll take the key and slip in while they’re looking the other way.”

All three of them were staring at him now, with expressions of utter disbelief.

“We weren’t really going to do it, Oscar,” Milo said slowly, as if unsure whether this fact had escaped him. “It’s too dangerous.”

“You worry about distracting the guards. Leave the rest to me.”

Simon regarded him seriously, the smirk falling from his lips for once.

“You’re mad, Oscar. You’ll be caught for certain. Do you know what they’ll do to you if they find you sneaking into the castle vault?”

Oscar smiled grimly. Whatever his friends thought, he knew the danger, but the reward was worth the risk. This was the answer. The only way.

“Just wait. You’ll see. I’ll steal that gold right out from under the king’s nose.”


	3. Chapter 3

They took their chance the following night.

Oscar crept along the riverbank, crouched low to the ground as he followed the silent silhouette of Simon ahead of him. Milo and Raff trailed behind. Simon had always been the most talented at moving through the shadows, while Oscar was the better pickpocket. He could steal almost anything unnoticed, though he had never tested luck against a target quite as risky as what he had planned tonight.

Their strategy was a simple one. Milo and Raff would stage a fight just north of the east gate, and Simon would yell for the guards, drawing them away from the small wooden door. Oscar would have a few precious minutes to force the lock open with his stolen key and slip inside the castle.

Simon stopped and held up a hand to signal the rest of them to halt. He slowly raised his head above the lip of the low stone wall that was their only cover, peeping up over the edge for just a moment before he ducked back down again. Oscar and the others pressed closer.

“Just the two of them, as we thought,” he whispered. “It’s a quick dash from here to the door. It shouldn’t take but a moment. Oscar, you stay here. The boys and I will carry on a little down the way before we start making a fuss.” His grin was manic. “Don’t do anything foolish, now. We’ll see you when you get back.”

Oscar forced a smile in spite of the nerves that squirmed like a nest of snakes in his belly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be easy.”

Simon nodded and gave his shoulder a quick punch before he set off again into the night, as silent as before. Milo and Raff followed, and soon all three were lost to sight, and Oscar was alone. It was an anxious wait, his ears straining to catch the first sign of the promised distraction. The sound of his own heart beating loud in his ears was all he could hear for a long moment, while his eyes caught the faint reflection of lanterns from the opposite bank on the midnight water of the river. He pressed a hand to his pocket, tracing the hard edges of the key beneath his palm.

Then he heard it. A shout, followed by a loud crash, and what sounded like several heavy objects splashing down into the water. He stifled a laugh. It seemed Simon and the others had outdone themselves. He dared a quick peek above the wall as he heard the shouting growing closer, and caught sight of the gate and the two guards illuminated by the single lantern suspended above the lintel. They were both looking in the direction of the din, but showed no sign of abandoning their posts.

Then Simon dashed around the corner. His scarf was pulled askew and he was breathing heavily, as if he had been in a fight. He ran up to the guards and tugged at the arm of the first one he reached, gesturing desperately back the way he had come.

“Please! Come quickly! They’re going to kill him!”

The guard shook off Simon’s grasp and exchanged a look with his fellow. “We shouldn’t leave the gate.”

Simon became even more agitated, tugging at his own hair and jumping from foot to foot. “Please! It’s my brother! You have to help him!”

The second guard shook his head. “We can’t very well let thieves kill a boy within sight of the castle. Come on, let’s go.”

The other man scowled but followed, Simon urging them on the whole way back toward the dock. Oscar waited until they were completely out of sight before he vaulted over the edge of the wall, and paused on the stones for a breathless moment. When he heard nothing, he dashed quickly toward the illuminated door, skidding to a crouched halt with the lock just level with his eyes. He slipped a hand into his pocket to grasp the key in sweating fingers and draw it out. He fumbled and nearly dropped it, but finally got a good grip and forced it into the lock, turning his wrist.

Nothing happened.

Oscar cursed and rattled the key viciously in the lock, forcing it in different directions until he felt a tremor as something shifted within the heavy metal of the cylinder. One more good twist and it gave with a resentful groan. Oscar stopped still, holding his breath and praying desperately that no one had heard the sound. He was excruciatingly exposed in the pool of light cast by the lantern.

Nothing stirred. After a moment of silence, he took a deep breath and pushed. The door gave grudgingly, a black slit opening that was just wide enough to slide his lanky body through. Oscar wormed his way around the side of the door. He pushed it closed behind him, cutting off the light from the lantern and engulfing him in darkness.

He leaned back against the door, breathing deeply and trying to calm his racing heart. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim surroundings, the walls of a long passage resolved around him. A faint glimmer of light was just visible at the far end of the tunnel. He started toward it, one hand on the wall to steady himself.

The source of the light was a single torch burning in a small room at the intersection of two passages. A square table sat in the middle of the room, two metal cups and an open carafe abandoned on its surface. He paused at the junction, looking left and then right. Both routes appeared equally deserted, and neither gave any indication that it might be the path to the vaults that he sought.

“Which way?” he muttered to himself, glancing between the two. At last he shrugged and turned left, grabbing the torch down from its sconce. He scooped up the carafe from the table as he passed and took a long pull of the vinegary wine within. It burned as it slid down his throat and settled hot in his belly. A short way down the passage, he came across a wooden door. He tried the handle, but the door was locked. On a whim, he pulled out his key and was pleased to discover that it worked. With a grin, Oscar swung open the door and held the torch aloft. Heaps of plain burlap sacks were piled to the ceiling. He pulled at the cord on one and it came free, spilling a pile of carrots onto the earthen floor.

Oscar grunted and backed away, turning to continue down the hall. The next door led to another root cellar, and the next held barrels of what he thought must be wine. Then finally, at the end of the hall, he came upon a door that looked heavier than any of the others, the wood reinforced with several steel bands. The lock was the similar to the others, though, and it opened just as easily to the pilfered key.

The door swung open, and the light from his torch caught on the most beautiful sight Oscar had ever seen. He stood there for a moment, admiring the bounty before him. Bags of coin, layer after layer of them, lined the walls. On the counting room table, stacks of golden discs stood in tall spires, glinting merrily in the firelight. A record book lay open on the bench as if the counter had been interrupted in the midst of his duties.

The torch fell forgotten from Oscar’s hand as he reached out. He lifted a bag that almost certainly contained more money than he had ever seen before. He could feel the grin stealing over his face and elation bubbling in his chest as he realized what this meant. Cara would be safe. Her tavern would stay her own. Just this one bag had enough coin in it to pay for that, as well as the expanded workshop his brother had been talking about, and so much more besides.

“What have we here?”

A chill raced down Oscar’s spine. He spun around, dropping into a crouch as he shoved the coin pouch into the back of his belt. Between him and the door stood two burly guards, dressed in mail and wielding swords. Oscar growled and shifted his weight, trying to gauge the best direction to flee that would allow him to outmaneuver them. The shorter of the two smirked at him.

“There’s nowhere to run, little thief. It’s the cells for you now.”

Oscar bared his teeth at the man, feinted to the left, then dashed right, aiming to dive between the two guards to the open passageway behind them.

The last thing he felt was the explosion of pain as a heavy fist landed on the side of his head.

The world went black.


	4. Chapter 4

Oscar woke to a sharp pain in his head and a throbbing arm. He pushed himself off of his aching shoulder to his back, gasping at the spike of agony that lanced through his skull. He fell into a ray of bright sunlight that illuminated the lids of his tightly closed eyes, and bit his lip, waiting for the pain to ebb enough that he could move again. Finally, he gathered the strength to open his eyes and take stock of his surroundings. The stone walls and high window, the source of the blinding sunlight, were enough to tell him where he was, even before he carefully turned his head and saw the heavy iron bars of the cell. The unyielding floor upon which he sprawled was cushioned only by a scattering of straw.

With a groan, Oscar levered himself up onto his elbows, and then his hands, until he was finally sitting upright. He closed his eyes again as the movement set the world spinning, and tried very hard not to vomit as he rode out the dizzy spell. He placed a hand gingerly on his complaining shoulder, rotating the joint slowly to gauge the damage. It hurt, but it did not feel broken. His head was another matter. He probed cautiously at the source of the worst pain, a knot where the guard’s fist had landed. He winced at the first tentative brush, and pulled his hand back to find his fingers speckled with flakes of dark, dried blood. Oscar cursed the guard in the foulest terms he could think of, looking around for something to clean the wound.

In the corner of the cell were two buckets. Not yet confident that his legs would hold him if he tried to stand, Oscar skidded across the floor on his rump until he could reach them. One was empty, but the other contained a small measure of blessedly clean water. Oscar pulled the end of his sleeve down past his knuckles and dipped the cloth into the water. He wrung it out by balling it into his fist. Then, using his other hand to guide him as he felt his way around the knot on his head, Oscar carefully mopped at the matted hair, cleaning away the blood and dirt from the dungeon floor.

When he was done, he was feeling considerably better, enough to drag himself to the bars of his cell and peer down the dark passage beyond. He could just catch sight of the bars of another cell next to his. Other than that, there was nothing to be seen but a long stretch of unremarkable stone wall.

“Hello!” he shouted down the corridor. “Is someone there?”

There was no reply.

“Let me out!” he tried again, to no avail.

He inspected the iron bars, trying to discover if there was some weakness, but they were anchored into the stone at either end. The locks on the door were solid, and a quick search revealed that his key was gone, along with his belt. There was no chance of escape.

Out of ideas, he slumped back against the wall with a frustrated sigh and settled in to wait. The slow slide of the beam of sunlight across the floor was unexpectedly hypnotic. He tracked its progress until he fell into a doze, jerking awake several times at sounds that turned out to be imagined. His stomach began to growl, and he drank the water in the bucket to appease it.

Finally, when the light was starting to fade to amber with approaching dusk and the silence became unbearable, he began to sing to himself under his breath, tapping his heel against the floor. It was the tapping that masked the approach of booted feet.

“In good spirits, I see,” rumbled his jailer, appearing beyond the bars.

Oscar scrambled back in surprise, and hissed as his shoulder protested the hasty movement.

“What’s going on? Let me out!”

The guard's face was stony. “I'm sure you don’t think you can try to steal from the king and walk away without consequences.”

“I didn’t take anything! I was just looking!”

“You can tell him that yourself. I'm to take you up to the hall now.”

Oscar gaped. “You're taking me to see the king?”

The guard nodded, pulling a long key from his belt and unlocking the door to the cell. “Come along. This will go better for you if you don’t fight.”

Oscar scowled, but did not resist as the guard took hold of his arm and hoisted him to his feet. He stumbled as he was marched from the cell. The journey took them through a winding series of stone passages that appeared all but identical to his eyes. Any illusion that he might break free and find his way out was thoroughly shattered by the reality of the complex construction of the tower.

A few minutes later, they arrived before a large wooden door. Two more liveried guards eyed Oscar disdainfully from either side. One nodded to the man holding Oscar and waved him through.

Oscar’s mouth fell open as he took in the grand hall that opened before them. The high vaulted ceiling was lined with intricately patterned beams, flowing down into two rows of slender columns. Heavy sconces cast flickering light down onto wooden tables bearing trays of polished silver goblets. Around the tables, groups of immaculately clad lords and ladies stood or lounged with heads close together. At the far end, a low dais held the king’s table, with a row of chairs behind, facing the hall. And before the table stood King Richard himself, cutting a most intimidating figure in his mail and coat, with a jewel-studded gold crown resting on his brow. He conversed with a lady in a bright red gown beside him, his posture casual and a goblet in his hand. Oscar had only seen him once before, and from a much greater distance. His heart began to race as his captor’s inexorable pace brought them closer.

He saw the moment the king noticed them, his expression growing stern beneath his sandy beard. His companion withdrew, leaving him alone on the dais.

“This is our thief, then?”

Oscar bristled at once at the authority in his voice. Before his guard could speak, he gathered all the bravado in his rebellious spirit, puffed out his chest and snapped, “What of it?”

Immediately, he was forced violently to the floor, his knees cracking on the unforgiving stone. The guard held him there with a crushingly painful grip on his injured shoulder. Still he refused to flinch or lower his gaze. The king lifted a surprised brow. “Impertinent, aren’t you?”

“Your guards threw me in a cell and left me there all day,” Oscar spat. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I demand you let me go at once!”

The king’s brows climbed even higher as the courtiers gathered around the hall burst into scandalized murmurs.

“Indeed.” The king made a quick gesture, and a hand fisted in Oscar's hair, forcing his head down with a sharp tug so all he could see was the patterned stone beneath the filthy knees of his trousers. He jerked against the firm grip, but the man forcing this humiliation upon him would not be shifted. Left with no other recourse, he growled and subsided.

“You are quite the hellion, I’ll give you that," the king drawled. "Nothing, you say? You were caught in my counting room, with my gold in your greedy little hand and a key in your pocket that was evidently capable of opening the door not only to the east gate but the vaults as well. Don’t think I won’t learn how you came to have one of those in your possession, by the way, and who else was involved in this little escapade.”

The sudden spike of fear was more for Simon and the others than for himself. He had thought to keep his friends well clear of suspicion, but if the king's men tracked down the key they were sure to discover them.

“I stole it!" he shouted. "On my own! Nobody else was involved.”

“We shall see,” said the king evenly. “In the meantime, there is the matter of your punishment. I’m sure you know that the price for stealing is one of your hands. For stealing from my own vault, it might very well be your head.”

A cold, hard knot of dread settled low in Oscar's gut, but he refused to show his fear to the court. He closed his eyes, and forced back the tears that threatened.

“Is that not a bit hasty, your majesty?” a new voice interjected suddenly.

Oscar’s eyes flew open. He tried to raise his head, to see who had spoken, but the hand in his hair tightened and forced his face back toward the floor. There was a long pause, filled only with the cautious whispers of the courtiers.

“Oh?” the king said at last. “You have a better idea?”

The strange voice continued merrily, “Surely it would be a shame to snuff out such an entertaining young knave as this at his tender age. I’m certain that with some effort he might be persuaded to mend his wicked ways, sire.”

“What do you propose?”

“Well, I’ve no servant as of yet. What say you to a wager, sire? You give him to me, and I’ll see him turned around before you can say knife.”

The king guffawed, and the court laughed with him. An angry flush heated Oscar's cheeks at the presumptuousness of this stranger.

“You think you can tame this hellion? You really are a fool.” The king sounded almost fond.

“Will you take my wager, then, sire? Or is my meager coin not fit to fill the king’s coffers?”

King Richard made a thoughtful sound. There was a long moment of silence, while Oscar’s heart staggered. Then the king announced his decision with evident humor. “Very well. If the fool wants him, let the fool have him. They will be well matched, the knave and the scoundrel.”

"Excellent choice, your majesty."

Relief gave way quickly to indignation. Oscar jerked against the iron hands that restrained him and spat, “I would rather die than be dog to some halfwit.”

The soft voice that murmured in his ear startled him to stillness. “Do not be so quick to forfeit your life, young wild one. There are many things in this world worth dying for, but foolish pride is not among them.”

Oscar looked up, and his breath caught as gentle, dark eyes met his own. He stared. The mocking laugh of the court in response to his heated words seemed a distant echo.

A moment later, a slow blink severed his fixed stare, and he gasped, realizing of a sudden that he had forgotten to breathe. The man before him spoke again, in that same soft tone. “Come with me.”

Oscar was released and leapt at once to his feet, fixing the gathering with a defiant glare before he turned to follow his guide. He was not much taller than Oscar, though he must be several years older. He wore a long, blue robe that nearly touched the floor, his hands partly hidden inside long sleeves. Oscar watched his back as they made their way from the hall.

The man did not speak as he led Oscar through the castle. They took a winding path, down certain narrow passages that Oscar was fairly certain were intended for the use of the castle servants, and emerged at last in a wide corridor before a heavy door. His guide opened this, and beckoned him into what appeared to be a library. Tall shelves lined the rear wall, broken only by a single window. Before them sat a heavy wooden desk and a padded chair. The floor was laid with many rugs of varied sizes and hues, and a worn couch loomed before a generous hearth.

Here, for the first time, Oscar’s guide turned, and he was able to observe the man clearly. He took in the long, plain garment and the even, angled features, the dark eyes that assessed him thoughtfully, a sharp contrast to fair hair, and thought that he would like to spend many more moments contemplating the air of inexplicable sorrow that hovered about this man.

Oscar did not want his interest to be noted, however, so he drew his indignation about him like a cloak, looked away and muttered resentfully, “Well? Where is this fool who would make me his prisoner?”

His words elicited a small, wry smile. “He stands before you. And you are no prisoner here.”

The knot in Oscar's chest began to loosen, and he realized with a shock that he had greatly dreaded the idea of being separated from this stranger. A myriad of questions flooded through him, but he could not decide which to ask first.

Into the silence, his rescuer said, “I am known as Cedric here. But you may call me Wamba.”


	5. Chapter 5

His captor appeared to be waiting for him to speak.

Oscar furrowed his brow and asked, as impertinently as he could manage, “Well, which is it? Are you Cedric or are you Wamba?”

The stranger shook his head, huffing a wry laugh. “Both, actually. Out there, I am Cedric. I prefer Wamba, though, within these walls. If you don’t mind.”

Oscar gave him a diffident shrug and looked away.

“And you, little thief? Do you have a name?”

“None to give to you,” he grumbled, less venomously than he would have preferred. Wamba's calm demeanor was unexpectedly disarming, so markedly different from the sardonic tenor he had adopted in the hall. It drained the bite from Oscar's response.

“Come now,” Wamba coaxed. “It appears we’re going to be spending a bit of time together for the present. Surely there must be something more agreeable than ‘thief’ that you would like to be called.”

Oscar bit back an icy retort, glanced up at Wamba and quickly away again, and finally mumbled, “Oscar.”

Wamba gave him a wide smile. "Hello, Oscar. It is a pleasure to meet you. Though perhaps these are not the happiest circumstances we could have hoped for.”

Oscar scowled. It only made Wamba laugh again. “Now, a harder question,” he continued. “Can you tell me how old you are?”

“Fifteen.”

Wamba hummed thoughtfully. “Quite young to be engaged in such dangerous endeavors as attempting to steal from the king’s own counting room. Would you care to tell me why you felt the need to put yourself in such great peril?”

Oscar set his jaw and shook his head.

“That’s alright. In time, perhaps.” Wamba said kindly, with quite a bit more understanding than Oscar probably deserved, considering how Oscar had treated him so far, and all after he had saved Oscar from a terrible punishment that he had rightly earned. A niggling little ember of guilt squirmed to life in his heart, but he quickly quenched it with the last dregs of his resentment. Wamba had saved him, that was true, but he still did not know what this new arrangement would entail. He might come to wish that he had never been rescued.

His thoughts were interrupted as Wamba moved away from him, toward the desk. “That’s a nasty bump on your head. Do you have any injuries that should be tended?”

“No,” Oscar shook his head. He was bruised all over, but no worse.

“Tell me if you change your mind. You must be hungry."

"I could eat," Oscar admitted.

"I’ve only some bread and cheese here, I’m afraid,” Wamba said, gesturing to a wooden tray, “but it is yours if you want it.”

He waved again, this time to what appeared to be a small cot, tucked snugly against the wall between the dark hearth and the last shelf. On it rested a flat pillow and a single woolen blanket, though the wool at least looked thick and warm.

“That bed will be yours, for now. It hasn’t had much use of late, so it may be a little mustier than one would prefer. I’ll see about having the ticking changed in the morning.”

This bit of fussiness prickled Oscar’s resentment again, and he scoffed. “I think you’re confusing me with one of your pampered noble friends. You have no idea where I come from, and I won't let you soften me with meaningless luxuries. I have no use for those who’ve spent their lives cradled in silk beds.”

He immediately regretted the words, throwing Wamba’s kindness back in his face, but he clamped down on a burgeoning apology, determined not to let his guard down, whatever the cost. He braced himself instead, expecting a blow, to be told off, maybe to be sent back to spend another night in the cells.

Instead, Wamba laughed, genuine amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. “Oh, I have no doubt of that, Oscar. I shall do my best to make sure your sentence here is not too pleasant for you. Do tell me if you feel you’re becoming soft and I’ll fetch the thumbscrews from the dungeons straight away, alright? Then you’ll have a proper story to tell your friends when you return home.”

Oscar grumbled at the gentle mocking, a blush heating his cheeks.

“The bedchamber is just through that door,” Wamba continued unfazed, gesturing to the only other door in the room apart from the one through which they had entered. “The privy is in there as well. You’re welcome to it. If you have nothing else you want to tell me, I’ll bid you good night. I must return to the hall for a while, but I shall see you in the morning.”

Oscar just nodded, eyeing the food on the table covetously.

“Very well. Do try to keep out of trouble until I return, won’t you?” Wamba asked as he brushed past Oscar on his way out into the corridor.

He paused, hand on the door, and looked back.

“Oh, and Oscar,” he murmured, quite serious now, “it’s best if you don’t try to leave here tonight. The king’s guards won’t look kindly on you if they have to chase you down a second time.”

Oscar swallowed. It seemed Wamba already understood him too well. Before Oscar could respond, he was gone, the door falling closed in his wake with a soft thump of wood on stone. Oscar stood for a moment, looking around, then went straight to the table and wolfed down the bread and cheese, emptying the carafe of watery wine beside the tray for good measure.

Once his stomach was appeased at last, the very next thing he did was to search every corner of the library for anything that might be of use. He dug through every drawer and cupboard, searching for valuables, weapons, or anything at all that might be used to extricate him from his current predicament. The search was fruitless.

He shouldered open the door to the bedroom next. It was slightly more spacious than the library, and dominated by just such a bed as he had mocked Wamba for earlier, piled with soft blankets and several furs. Turning, he discovered another hearth and a wooden tub propped against the wall, large enough for a man to sit comfortably. There was a tall chest of drawers to one side of the bed, and a short cabinet on the other. He pawed through these feverishly, coming across a few pieces of clothing, a well-stocked medicine chest, and little else. He was quickly becoming disgusted with his lack of success.

For a nobleman, Wamba had remarkably few possessions, or so it seemed to Oscar, who had always imagined such men occupied themselves collecting wealth to display ostentatiously about their homes. Oscar suspected the only thing of any great value to be found was the impressive collection of books, but as he was unable to read them, and they were too unwieldy to carry with him if he were to effect an escape, he had no idea how they could be of use to him. The humble trappings of Wamba’s chambers, with the exception of the bed, seemed to suggest either an aspiration toward a monastic life or some form of madness. Oscar thought perhaps the latter was not far off the mark. The king had called him a fool, after all.

Finally, at a loss for anything more to examine, he sprawled out on the worn couch and contemplated the empty hearth. There was wood in a basket on the side opposite the bed. Jumping up again, he found flint and steel in a small copper bowl on the mantel, tinder in a soft pile beside the wood basket. He did not know if Wamba would be unhappy with him for starting a fire, but the room was growing numbingly cold as night set in, and he had not been specifically warned against it, so he piled the kindling in the grate and set about nursing a healthy blaze to life. The room quickly filled with comfortable heat.

He stared into the fire for a while, considering everything that had happened to him, how much his life had changed in just one short turn of the sun. He spared a thought for Emmett, and what his brother would think when Oscar did not return home. He wondered if Simon and the others would bother to tell him what had happened. He wondered if the king would follow through on his threat and his friends would join him in captivity.

Outside, a church bell tolled midnight. He realized, wrenchingly, that it was Friday, the last day for Cara to pay the sum demanded by the tax collector. He had promised Cara that he would find her the coin she needed, and she had warned him against just the sort of risk he had taken. Now she was proven right. The day had come, and not only had he failed to fulfill his promise to his friend, he would not even be there to stand by her side as she lost her inheritance and her livelihood in one stroke.

It was the image of Cara, alone and hopeless, that finally broke him. Curled on the floor before the fire, Oscar put his head down on his knees and silently wept.

He fell asleep that way, without hearing Wamba return.


	6. Chapter 6

A sharp poke in the side woke Oscar from his slumber. He flinched away with a yelp, batting at the annoyance, but stopped short when his hand encountered what could only be a foot, encased in an exceptionally pointy shoe and attached to what was undeniably another person. He glanced warily up to find wide hazel eyes peering down at him from a plump little face framed by a linen bonnet. Mousy brown curls spilled untidily from its confines.

Oscar bolted upright, and was immediately beset by lancing pains up his back as he realized that he must have spent the length of the night and much of the morning hunched over his knees on the carpet before the fire. He groaned, slowly easing his limbs from their cramped pose. He attempted to shake the blood back into his hands and feet, praying fervently for the cobwebs in his head to clear as well.

The stranger gave him another poke.

“Stop that!” he grumbled. "Who are you?”

“Who are you?” she parroted accusingly back at him. “How did you get into these chambers?”

Oscar hesitated while the previous day came back to him in a slow trickle of memory. He could not recall hearing his jailer return.

“Where’s Wamba?" he asked.

"Who's that?"

"Oh," Oscar said, wracking his brain for the other name he had been given. "What about Cedric?”

The girl shrugged, but the suspicion in her eyes was finally beginning to abate. “Probably off making decisions for the rest of us, as usual. What does it matter? Who are you? Why are you here?”

The truth was that Oscar still did not know why Wamba had spoken for him, or what was now expected of him. At a loss, he grasped at the one possible explanation that seemed more likely than the rest. “I’m his new helper.”

“His helper?" the girl asked, a skeptical tilt to her brow. "You mean his servant?”

“I suppose," Oscar shrugged. "My duties haven’t exactly been explained to me yet.”

“So, to be clear, you might be a servant, but without any duties, and your master wandered off without you.” She smirked. “I’d say you’re at rather loose ends.”

"I would have to agree."

She looked at him a moment longer, seemed to come to a decision. Her head bobbed in a firm nod and she held out her hand to him. “I’m Emma. I’m the maid looking after this section of the north wing.”

“Oscar,” he introduced himself, taking her hand. He was surprised when she used the grip to pull him to his feet, her strength out of proportion to her small frame. Both of them standing, she was a full head shorter than he was.

“Welcome to the tower, Oscar. I have to go tidy up the bedroom. It won’t take long. Why don’t you scrape out that grate for me, and then I’ll take you down to the kitchens and introduce you to some of the other castle servants.”

“Excellent,” Oscar grinned, pleased to have met someone who seemed more like him, and not a a hostile guard or an inscrutable noble. Something about her reminded him powerfully of Simon, and he found himself warming to her immediately as a result.

Emma furnished him with a short handled broom and a soot-stained pan to scrape up the remains of the fire and deposit them in her ash pail. He was familiar enough with the task of cleaning a hearth, and set to it with a will. As he swept, he pondered again why Wamba might have chosen not to wake him when he returned. Perhaps he had not seen Oscar there or perhaps, strange as it sounded, he had not returned at all. If he had returned and then left silently that morning, without alerting his charge, that was stranger still.

Oscar considered Wamba’s warning from the previous night, that he not leave these rooms. He wondered if it still held, but decided that venturing out on his own was entirely different to going in the company of one of the castle maids. If someone challenged him, he could simply claim that Emma was instructing him in his new duties.

He was brushing ash off his knees when Emma returned, a pile of soiled linens bundled in her arms. She smiled and nodded at the ash pail. “Bring that and follow me.”

He hefted the pail in one hand, broom and pan in the other, and trailed after her into the corridor. As they walked, Emma chattered on about the castle and all the people in it.

“I think you’ll like it here once you get your bearings and meet some of the others. Gregory and Margaret will be pleased to have someone else our age about. Most of the scullions are too small to be any fun, tucked away in bed as soon as the washing up is done. Gregory’s the steward’s son, you know, and he’ll probably become the next steward once his father is too old for it, although I’m not sure if that will ever happen, to be perfectly honest. Alard’s too mean and tightfisted to hand the keys to his little kingdom over to anyone, even his own son. But I suppose everyone dies eventually!"

Oscar nodded along and made the occasional noise of agreement, absorbing all the information being offered and thanking his stars that Emma was a bit of a gossip.

"Gregory’s just a house servant for now, though, the same as you and me. He attends the feasts in the hall sometimes, with the older servants, but he never serves at the high table. Margaret is a chambermaid, like me, but she does the other side of the north wing. The south wing is the royal chambers. The king has his own personal servants for those, so we don’t go in there. They're the snootiest bunch of pointy-nosed snobs you’ll ever meet. They're mostly from noble families, you see. Younger daughters and sons who will never catch a sniff of title or fortune, but still think they’re superior to the rest of us just because of their blood.”

They navigated several flights of narrow, winding stairs as they descended into the heart of the castle. Once or twice, Oscar caught sight of other people in adjoining passages as they passed, but no one crossed their path directly until they emerged into a steamy, cramped room where barrels of hot water were being filled with washing. The laundresses worked with sleeves rolled up high to bare their arms, hair hanging in damp ringlets from the backs of the kerchiefs they wore to keep it up and away from their shining faces. Emma called a greeting to the nearest woman as she added her armload of sheets to an untidy pile. Then she herded Oscar back out the door and down yet another long corridor.

“This place is a maze,” Oscar remarked to Emma. “I don't think I’ll ever be able to go anywhere on my own.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she assured him. “The whole tower is just one big square, really, around the central yard. You’ll learn the sense of it quick enough, unless you're completely hopeless. There’s not much bad to be said about working here, you know. You work hard and keep out from under foot, and the cooks will take a shine to you in no time, with a charming face like yours. It's a shame you got saddled with Cedric, though. That's a stroke of bad luck."

The casual pronouncement made Oscar pause. “Why do you say that?”

Emma gave a little shrug. “Well, he’s a bit odd, isn’t he? That’s all.”

Before Oscar could pursue the question, they emerged from the narrow passage into a wide, brightly lit room was that clearly the main kitchen. Emma waved him toward a small door in the near corner. “Go and dump those ashes in the garden. You can drop the pail by the door there when you're done. I’ll see if I can find us something to eat.”

Oscar was happy to oblige. He stepped out into chilly air and radiant sunlight that reflected brightly off of a thin layer of freshly fallen snow. He stood for a long moment before the open door, breathing the clean air and relishing the feeling of freedom that came with stepping out of doors for the first time in nearly two days. Someone inside yelled at him to close the door, so he hustled off to finish his assigned task. The ash pile was easy to find, as several other buckets had already been deposited that morning. The gray ash had been mixed into the snow by many pairs of feet, forming a treacherous slush. He navigated the walk carefully in his thin-soled shoes, and propped his tools up beside the kitchen door near their fellows before he returned inside.

Emma was seated at a table at the far end of the kitchen. A boy who appeared around their same age sat beside her. He was tall and reed-thin, with orange hair and a hooked nose. She waved Oscar over when she caught sight of him loitering near the door. As he approached he saw that she had secured two bowls of dark stew. A third bowl sat empty before the other boy.

The moment he was within reach, Emma reached out to grab his arm and pull him over beside her. “Oscar, this is Gregory. Gregory, this is Cedric’s new servant, Oscar.”

“Well met, Oscar," Gregory said, though his voice was cool. "Cedric, is it? Good luck with that one. He’s never had any use for a servant before. I wonder what changed his mind."

"It was my charming personality," Oscar said with a smirk.

"Well, I agree it must have been something other than your appearance." Gregory looked Oscar up and down critically, his mouth pursing in distaste at what he found. "I do hope that he sees to procuring you some more appropriate clothing as soon as possible. It won’t do for royal guests to see a house servant going about dressed like a street urchin.”

“Gregory!” Emma snapped, dealing him a light smack on the arm. “You sound like one of the king’s precious lot when you talk like that. Or your father.” She obviously knew where to hit him for the greatest effect. Gregory winced and gave Oscar a rather sheepish grin.

“Sorry, I suppose,” he offered. “It’s just, someone has to think of these things. Cedric probably won’t even notice.”

“Why not?” Oscar asked.

“Oh, you know,” Gregory hedged. “He’s just a bit odd, that’s all. Not quite like the rest of the nobles, if you get my meaning.”

“I really, really don’t,” Oscar sighed. “Nobody will tell me what they mean.”

Gregory and Emma exchanged a significant look. Then Gregory stood. “Look, I have to go now. Things to do. If you want us to tell you about Cedric, come and find us in the stables. We’re there most evenings, after supper.”

More confused than ever, Oscar just nodded. Gregory left, and Emma bid Oscar eat his stew. He did so eagerly, his stomach rejoicing at its first warm meal in days. Emma ate quickly before she too stood. “We’ll see you later, yes?”

“Yes. Definitely.” Oscar smiled at her as she left.

It was only after she had gone that he realized he did not know where the stables were. Or the way back to Wamba’s chambers.


	7. Chapter 7

Abandoned by his guide and with no clear purpose, Oscar decided to savor his independence a while longer. He exited the kitchen into the garden, skirting the ash pile and a sleepy patchwork of barren stalks and dark soil that made up an herb garden. He meandered toward the towering expanse of the outer wall. Peering up, eyes narrowed against the sun, he could just make out the silhouettes of two castle guards patrolling the top of the imposing fortification. Their mail glinted in the bright light, giving off flashes of radiance as they crossed paths and began to move away from one another.

It was a stark reminder of just how dire his predicament was. Two days ago, he had been free. He had been possessed of a passion and a purpose, albeit without much of a plan to accomplish them. If nothing else, he had boasted the ability to act in whatever manner seemed fitting to him. Now he was a prisoner, in all but name. A servant without an assignment, or any indication at all of what his duties would be. The uncertainty of his position ate at him, along with the mystery of the man who had put him there.

Nothing about his new master made sense. The more he thought about Wamba, the stranger he seemed. In their brief interactions the previous night, he had appeared to display two entirely separate personalities, so at odds with one another as to be utterly unlikely to exist within one man. Hearing Emma and Gregory speak of him had only strengthened Oscar's conviction that something about Wamba was most definitely out of the ordinary.

In the midst of that turmoil, Emma had been a pleasant surprise. Once her first bristle of suspicion had been smoother over, Oscar could say without hesitation that he liked the chatty young chambermaid. The thought of having her as a friend made the prospect of an extended stay in the tower more palatable, and there was still the promise of other allies besides, but that did not mean that he would resign himself to captivity without making his most wholehearted effort to escape.

The guards patrolling the parapet had disappeared around separate corners. As he waited for them to return, he sauntered around the edge of the bare garden, hoping to give the impression that he was occupied about some duty should anyone look down from the high wall. He kicked at a few stones along the path and watched them skitter away from his boots, leaving dirty furrows in the icy snow. Listening hard, he was just able to make out what sounded like the creak of wooden boats and the familiar slop of waves on rock, and concluded that this particular wall bordered on the river. Oscar tucked that bit of information away as he began to form an image of the tower in his mind. He had made one complete round of the small yard when a telltale flash of sunlight on steel caught his eye and he glanced up to see one of the soldiers round the edge of the nearest turret.

“You, there!"

Oscar jumped, whirling around. A tall, rawboned woman in a dirty apron and kerchief stood in the open kitchen doorway. She fixed Oscar with a stony glare. “What are you doing? You had your dinner. Get back to your duties!”

When he did not move at once, she took a threatening step into the yard. “Off with you!”

Oscar scampered quickly away, not willing to risk finding out what she might do if he angered her further. Cut off from the route through the kitchens, he scurried toward the nearest alternative. This was a small wooden door that opened into a low passage. It was lined with narrow windows that cast bars of light onto the stone floor.

He turned right, following what he suspected was a parallel path to the wall that fronted the river, until he rounded a corner and was abruptly in a much grander hall. The walls were weathered wood, dark with age and carved in elegant patterns of oak leaves, acorns, and crawling vines. Windows of leaded glass stained vibrant hues of red, blue, green and glowing gold adorned the walls at regular intervals. They depicted knights on their chargers, ladies in their bowers, and the royal coat of arms. Oscar's mouth fell open as he gazed around him in mute wonder. Never had he seen, nor even imagined, such splendid appointments. Even the great abbey could not compare, the purpose of its grandeur more intimidation than wonder. This room had been built for pleasure and beauty.

A sound from beyond one of the doors startled him. Shaking off his stupor, he carried on quickly through the hall and into another gallery beyond, this one adorned with intricate murals over every inch of the walls and even, he realized with amazement, the ceiling. Oscar did not let himself linger. He shuffled on, careful to close each door quietly behind him. He passed through several more galleries and a small antechamber. At the far end stood a pair of reinforced wooden doors, much larger than any he had passed before. He gave one a tug, relieved to find that it was unlocked.

Oscar pulled it open with an effort, and stepped out to emerge at last in the bailey. There before him was the great gate that led out into the world. He regarded it wistfully for a moment, then took a deep breath and began to approach, as casually as he could manage. As he drew close to the gate, he noticed a shadow beneath the door. It moved restlessly along the ground, paused, then began to traverse the same stretch again in the opposite direction. There was at least one guard stationed on the other side, then. A quick glance up let him count at least four more atop the postern.

Every new discovery led him to the same conclusion. Escape from the tower would not come easy. For today, at least, he was defeated, though his small jaunt had not been fruitless. He now knew at least something of the layout of the castle grounds, and how many guards he could expect at any point along the wall. He also had his promised meeting with Emma and Gregory, and the still unknown Margaret, perhaps others. He might yet make allies of them, a boon to any plan he might concoct. That was in addition to what they would have to tell him about Wamba.

Thinking of him reminded Oscar that Wamba had no way of knowing where he had gone. Discovering Oscar missing, he might very well raise an alarm, as he had intimated the night before. Without further ado, Oscar turned his steps back toward the keep. He would have a chance to plan his escape later. It was time to find his way back, and learn what fate Wamba had in store for him.


	8. Chapter 8

It felt like hours before Oscar finally found his way back to Wamba’s chambers. Lacking confidence in his ability to navigate the narrow back passages, he confined his wandering to the main corridors of the tower. Just as Emma had described, it was one immense square, with the expansive courtyard in the center, but the inconsistent placement of stairs created the effect of a vast labyrinth, with no clue at any juncture as to what might wait around the next corner. He made several perilously wrong turns and had to backtrack quickly to avoid the king's guards, but he persisted and stumbled at last upon the ironbound door that he sought. It stood slightly ajar, and he paused with one hand resting lightly on the wood at the sound of voices inside.

The first words he was able to make out were Wamba’s. “This is the second time. I admit I am uncertain what will be most effective in dissuading this sort of behavior again.”

Oscar's limbs froze.

“I don’t see what’s so confounding about it,” answered another voice, one that Oscar quickly placed as that of the king. “He deserves a flogging.”

Ice raced down Oscar’s spine, even as his face flushed hot and his heart began to pound.

“Yes, sire,” Wamba responded in a resigned murmur. Though he was clearly unhappy with this pronouncement, he did not seem inclined to argue.

The king was evidently dissatisfied with his halfhearted agreement, as he scolded Wamba in tones of long-suffering patience. “I did not give you this task to see you surrender to the regrets of your soft heart at every turn. They are not all misunderstood, and they do not all deserve lenience. The law is clear on this. It’s a flogging.”

“It is not only my heart that regrets the necessity of this.”

“Nevertheless," the king said firmly, "see to it.”

“Yes, sire.”

Wamba’s quiet acquiescence was nearly drowned beneath the rap of boot heels on stone as footsteps approached the door. Oscar scrambled back away from it, casting a desperate glance around for a corner or buttress behind which to conceal himself, but the corridor was long and woefully empty.

“Don’t be disheartened, Wamba," the king said. "It was inevitable that this would come up eventually. He won't be the last."

The door swung open to reveal the king, his head turned to deliver his parting words. Then he looked into the corridor and spotted Oscar there, standing with his arms spread and his back to the wall. King Richard was without his mail, clad in a leather jerkin, and his head was bare of his crown. The informal dress did nothing to dampen the weight of the disapproving glare he turned on Oscar.

“Well," he said. "Your little runaway has returned, it seems.”

Over his shoulder, Oscar saw Wamba look up quickly from a scroll spread across the heavy desk.

“Oscar!” His voice and face were bright with relief.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to keep a firmer rein on him, now that you've located him.” The king shook his head as he walked away, disappearing around the corner a moment later.

Oscar stared mutely at Wamba through the open door, grisly visions of floggings he had seen in the public square swimming nauseatingly through his mind. He could hear the snap of the leather lash on bare skin in his memory, the screams of the criminals. He recalled vividly the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench when they pissed themselves from fear and pain.

Oscar stared at Wamba, and thought about running. He knew something of the castle now, and might make it to the walls before Wamba could catch him. He was confident he could outrun the bookish man as long as he did not take a wrong turn into a dead end. His muscles tensed, preparing to flee. Then, with growing despair, he remembered the high walls and the heavily guarded gates of the tower. There would be no escape. Not for long, anyway.

"I'm glad you returned." The sound of Wamba's voice startled him from his spiraling thoughts, drawing him back to the library and the man who occupied it.

Wamba stood in the doorway now, beckoning him forward into the room. Bereft of options, Oscar swallowed hard and stepped away from the wall. He passed by Wamba, who turned to allow him through and closed the door behind him. Oscar was suddenly conscious of his exposed back in a way he could not remember ever being, a prickle creeping across his shoulder blades. He wondered what a flogging would feel like.

Wamba rounded his petrified form, concern in his dark eyes as he tilted his head to catch Oscar's gaze. "Where were you today?"

“I…” Oscar stalled on an explanation.

“Have you eaten?”

The kind question was so unexpected that Oscar's stupor broke, and he managed to find his voice at last. “Yes.”

“Good," Wamba said. "I wasn’t certain whether you would be able to find your way to the kitchens. I brought a meal, but you were already gone.”

“You went to the kitchens?” Oscar blurted out.

"They gave me the remains of dinner, I think. I'll wager it’s palatable enough.”

There on the desk did indeed sit a bowl of the same stew that Oscar had shared with Emma and Gregory, though upon closer inspection is was much thinner than the portion Oscar had received earlier. It contained hardly any meat, clearly from the bottom of the pot. It struck him as curious that a noble would be presented anything less than the best of what the kitchens had to offer.

Oscar decided it was best not to mention it. “I was with Emma, the chambermaid. She showed me the way to the kitchens, and the laundry.”

“That is well,” Wamba said, a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. “The sooner you get to know the tower the better, I should think.”

“Am I to have any duties?” Oscar asked.

“Of course. We hadn’t spoken of that yet.” Wamba turned to walk back to the desk. He picked up a quill there and made a careful notation on a sheet of parchment that already bore several lines of curving black text. “The king has decided that your service here will be for one year, beginning today. During that time, you will be under my supervision.”

“What would you have me do?” Oscar asked warily.

Wamba's smile widened. “Nothing too strenuous for now. You’ll help me with a few simple tasks here and there. I’m sure that there will be more to do as you get your bearings. I’ll see about finding some time to spend with you in the evenings to help speed that along. Does that sound agreeable?”

Oscar nodded.

“Excellent," Wamba said. “In that case, I have your first task for you. Why don’t you go and find your friend Emma. Ask her to help you change that mattress. Then you can lay the fire.”

So Oscar set out eagerly into the castle again. He did not find Emma, but Gregory was happy enough to direct him to the steward’s office when he stumbled upon him in the antechamber of the great hall. A stout man in the king’s livery helped him drag the mattress from the small cot in the library and replace it with a much fresher cousin.

It was only once he was settled in his sweet-smelling and surprisingly warm bed that night that he remembered the conversation he had overheard, and the flogging that the king had ordered Wamba to deliver. He shifted on the bed, curling in on himself and tugging the blanket up around his ears. The sentence had been unequivocal. Oscar had been spared today, but he could not forget what was coming. He could not let Wamba’s kindness cloud his judgment.

He needed a means of escape.


	9. Chapter 9

Over the course of the following days, Oscar performed all manner of menial tasks. He fetched and carried, asked questions and offered help, and generally worked to ingratiate himself with as many people around the castle as he could manage. Wamba eased him into his duties slowly, setting him new challenges that took him gradually farther out into the reaches of the tower. On his second day, he tended the fires that warmed Wamba’s chambers, delivered a bundle of clothing to the laundresses, and carried a scrap of parchment to the steward. It was taken from his hand by the same taciturn fellow who had aided him with the mattress and exchanged for a thick woven blanket, a pair of warm woolen socks and sturdy boots that Oscar was startled to realize were intended for him. Wamba only smiled at his surprise.

The next morning he pulled on his new boots and tromped out into the snowy stable yard to deliver another note to the farrier, one that earned him a raised brow and a pitchfork and broom shoved into his hands, along with instructions to clear out the moldering hay from the rear of the workshop. When he returned to the library that evening, he was sore and tired, with a throbbing ache in the shoulder that had been wrenched during his capture, but his feet were warm and dry. As Emma had predicted, he found himself growing familiar with the twists and turns of the tower surprisingly quickly.

There was always food waiting for him upon his return. Wamba was unfailingly kind, and made his requests politely, and did not ask Oscar any more prying questions that he might have been unwilling to answer. Despite his promise to find time to instruct Oscar, however, Wamba habitually returned late in the night from wherever it was he occupied his days. He spent most of his time in the library hunched tiredly over his books and scrolls, writing with careful, deliberate strokes and a small frown of concentration creasing the skin between his pale brows.

Oscar wanted to ask him where he went during the day and what he was writing. He wanted to ask many things, to learn the source of the long white scar that Oscar could just make out slicing across Wamba's cheek, and what he was remembering when his gaze would grow distant and his expression melancholy before he focused again on his writing. More than anything, he wanted to know why Wamba had spoken for Oscar, and what he expected from him now that he had him.

Overshadowing all was the memory of the overheard conversation between Wamba and the king, and the promise of a flogging that made him shiver each time he recalled it. Wamba had agreed with the king, but had since made no move or even given any indication that he was planning to follow through on the punishment. Oscar wondered what he was waiting for. That uncertainty spurred him to perform every task Wamba set him as skillfully as he was able. It kept his tone polite and his manners as proper as he knew how to make them. If Wamba was perplexed by this sudden shift in his demeanor, he did not show it.

On the fourth day, just after the noon bell, as Oscar was trying to decide whether to venture down to the kitchens or go and offer his help to the farrier again, Wamba suddenly appeared much earlier than expected. He carried a tray in his hands, laden with two plates and two cups. After a hasty shared dinner, he set off again with Oscar in tow in the direction of the steward’s office.

"Where are we going?" Oscar asked him.

"You'll see."

Wamba stopped and knocked on a door further along the passage. It opened to reveal what appeared to be a tailor’s closet, with bolts of fine cloth stacked along one wall and several half-formed garments neatly laid out along the tall benches.

“More luxuries?” he could not help but remark, one challenging brow lifted in Wamba’s direction.

Wamba just laughed softly, giving Oscar a lopsided little grin that made his heart skip oddly in his chest. “Nothing but the finest shackles for you, Oscar.”

He handed over a slip of parchment to the young woman there. She eyed them both curiously as she accepted it. Then she dipped a swift curtsy and headed off toward the back of the room, where a collection of woolen shirts and trousers were slung over a wide wooden frame.

“I didn’t ask you for the clothes," Oscar felt compelled to remind him. "Or the boots."

Wamba glanced at him. “No, but as I have been charged to look after you, I would prefer that you did not catch your death running about in nothing but those all winter.” The wave of his hand encompassed Oscar’s threadbare tunic and breeches, which had once belonged to his brother and had been through so many washes that they were no longer of any recognizable color, if they ever had been.

“I haven’t died yet,” Oscar muttered, ducking his head to hide a flush of humiliation at his shabbiness. He did not point out that he was under Wamba’s charge only because he had made it so.

“Yes, well, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

The young woman returned to them with several garments slung over her arm. One by one, she laid out pairs of trousers and a handful of simple shirts on the bench before Wamba and Oscar.

“These should be close to the right size," she said. "Give them a try and I’ll fetch more once we know what fits.”

Wamba gave her a smile. “Thank you…” he waited expectantly.

“Celia, my lord. The tailor’s assistant.”

“Thank you, Celia.”

She ducked her head, a faint blush in her cheeks. Oscar rolled his eyes and reached for the first pair of trousers. He looked around, but there was no screen to be seen. With a shrug, he dropped his trousers and stepped out of them, along with his boots.

Celia gasped, and Wamba began to laugh. “That’s certainly one way to do it.”

“Did you have a better idea?” Oscar glared at Wamba, a burning flush working its way up his neck. He glanced down to make sure, but he was still perfectly decent, his tunic covering him to mid-thigh.

“No, no. Do carry on.” The amusement dancing in Wamba’s dark eyes made Oscar’s cheeks burn even hotter, but he ignored it, yanking the trousers viciously up his legs. The wool hugged his hips but the cut was a bit short, leaving his bony ankles exposed. The next pair was the right length, but felt loose around the waist. Celia, recovered from her shock, stepped forward and tugged at the trousers, pinching the fabric until it fit snugly about his hips.

“This will work. Let me see if we have a pair this length with laces.” She fetched several more pieces off the wooden rack and made him try them until she was satisfied with a dark brown pair that was nearly the same color as his boots. Next came the tunics, all of the same simple cut but in various shades of blue and gray. Throughout this ordeal, Wamba stood with one hip braced against the bench, a small smile on his lips and soft eyes on Oscar.

Gooseflesh rose on Oscar's bare chest and arms as he glanced over and met Wamba's eyes, so he quickly looked back at Celia, who was shoving a dark blue tunic into his hands and instructing him to put it on. He tried shirt after shirt, until at last Celia was satisfied with his appearance.

Donning his new clothes, Oscar felt uncomfortable and overdressed, but very warm. Celia placed a bundle in his arms. Altogether, he was leaving with three tunics and two pairs of trousers. It was more changes of clothing than he had ever possessed at once, and every garment new and chosen for him. He was a prisoner, but it certainly did not feel like it. He looked at Wamba, and his enigmatic smile, and wondered again what the price for this generosity would be.

They both thanked Celia, and it was only as they turned to go that Oscar spotted the changing room in the corner, its curtain pulled away to one side.


	10. Chapter 10

Oscar had very little chance to speak to Emma during his first days. He caught glimpses of her, and managed to snatch a few moments to exchange a quick greeting here and there as she moved about the north wing on her rounds, but no more. A full week had passed since their first meeting when he finally found his opportunity to seek her out. Wamba had informed Oscar that he would be dining with the king, and expected to be late, so Oscar slipped from the library just after the vesper bell and made his way down to the stables.

The yard was dark and deserted, the tower wall a looming black shape against the stars. He picked his way carefully across the hard packed earth until his eyes adjusted to the faint light and he could move with more confidence. He located the stable door and opened it slowly, releasing a band of golden light out into the night. Inside, the warm smell of hay and horse greeted him, the beasts settled into their separate enclosures. A large head appeared over the gate of the nearest stall, liquid black eyes peering at Oscar. The horse's ears flicked as it gave him a soft whicker. Oscar patted its velvety muzzle and made his way toward the warm light that shone at the far end of the long space.

He could hear voices lifted in laughter as he approached the back of the stable. Behind the wooden wall of the last stall, he found Emma lounging on a pile of clean straw. Her cap was removed, letting her unruly brown curls spill loose about her shoulders, and she held a wooden cup in one hand. An unknown girl sat cross-legged beside her, her straight blonde hair pulled back from a pretty face into a loose braid. On a nearby bale perched Gregory, his posture stiff and formal even here. He was the first to spot Oscar.

“Here’s a surprise. I see you took my advice about the clothes.”

Emma sat up quickly when she saw him, a smile blooming on her face. “Oscar! I thought you had forgotten about us, trailing about at the heels of his lordship as you’ve been.”

“Hardly." Oscar brushed off the comment and waved at the cup in her hand. "Are you going to share that or should I run and steal my own?”

“Of course, of course." Emma pulled a wineskin from the straw beside her and filled the cup before passing it to him. The girl beside her was watching him curiously.

“Margaret, is it?” He winked and she blushed.

Emma looked between them. “Oh, you hadn’t met yet. Yes, this is Margaret. She’s a bit shy, but don’t let it trouble you. Margaret, this is Oscar.”

“Hello,” Margaret offered a bashful smile. “You’re new?”

“Just arrived a week ago.”

“Speaking of,” Gregory interjected with an unpleasant smirk on his lips, “there are rumors about you, Oscar.”

“Oh?” He took a long drink from his cup.

“They’re saying that you’re not a servant at all. That you got caught trying to steal from the king and that Cedric rescued you from the chopping block.”

Oscar shrugged. “I never made any secret of it.” The whole episode had taken place in front of the entire court, after all.

Margaret’s blue eyes went very wide. “You broke into the tower?”

“I did,” Oscar put on his best rakish grin, pushing out his chest. “I nearly made it, too. I was outnumbered in the counting room.”

“Why would you do a thing like that?” Emma squeaked.

“To see if I could, of course,” he blustered.

Gregory snorted. “Lovely. An unwashed peasant and a criminal. Excellent taste in friends you have, Emma.”

“What does that say about you, then?” she retorted acidly.

Gregory sniffed.

“Do you know Cedric?” asked Margaret, a small frown pinching her pretty face.

“Never saw him in my life before that day.”

“Why did Cedric speak for you, then?" Emma asked. "What does he want with you?”

Oscar opened his mouth to reply, but Gregory spoke first.

“Oh, I can think of a few things,” he said, his long face twisted in a sneer.

“What do you mean by that?” Even as he bristled, Oscar thrilled at the chance to finally learn something of the mysterious Wamba.

It was Emma who answered. “He’s got a bit of a reputation, you know.”

“A reputation?”

“He’s just a little different, is all,” Emma said. “He’s the only noble who would even think of coming down to the kitchens. And he bathes constantly. Practically every week. I’ve never known anyone who took so many baths. It’s not healthy, you know.”

Oscar nodded.

“He spends so much time with the king, and he never shows the slightest interest in any of the ladies at all."

"And it isn’t as though they haven’t tried to get his attention," Margaret added.

“Really?” Oscar frowned.

“Oh, yes. I can’t tell you how many letters I’ve been asked to deliver from visiting courtiers.”

“Maybe he’s got more important things keeping him occupied,” Oscar said.

“Then there’s his father,” Gregory added knowingly. Emma and Margaret both nodded, eyes on Oscar.

“What about him?”

“His father Cedric was a Saxon thane," Gregory said, "practically a barbarian. I heard he used to bed his Christian slaves. The boys in particular. That kind of thing is in the blood, you know.”

A sickening clarity descended over Oscar. It made sense, when he considered the odd way Wamba treated him, his overt kindness Oscar was sure was meant to lull him into a false sense of security, the unsolicited gifts of valuable luxuries, the unreadable look as Wamba had watched Oscar undress in the tailor’s closet.

“They say he had half a dozen of them," Gregory continued, "and entertained himself by taking them so violently that he would have to go through all the rest before the first was recovered enough to be bedded again.”

Margaret was staring at Gregory with wide eyes, but Emma snorted. “Now that part sounds like a stretch.”

“It’s all true,” Gregory insisted. “One of them tried to run away, but he was caught. They say Cedric had him flayed and strung up as an example to the others.”

“And I bet he took the corpse to his bed as well, right? Then served the roasted flesh of his murdered and buggered slave to his dinner guests that evening?" Emma rolled her eyes. "Honestly.”

Margaret and Gregory laughed, but Oscar heard it as if from a great distance. A wave of nausea washed over him, along with an odd detachment. He had been waiting for the hidden motive behind Wamba’s solicitousness to be revealed. Now he was certain he knew what would be asked of him, maybe forced from him, if he dared to lower his guard.

“Oscar? Are you alright?” Margaret whispered. She reached out to touch his hand. It pulled him back to himself with a jolt. He gave her a weak smile, and drank deeply from the cup in his shaking hand, draining it and handing it back to Emma for more. She did not comment as she poured him another measure.

“Is that all?" he said, with forced humor. "He’s not a werewolf as well?”

Emma laughed and said kindly, “It’s probably just gossip. He’s different, and it’s only been a year or so since he came to London. Nobody knows much about him, so they’re bound to talk.”

The conversation moved away from Wamba after that. Oscar listened with half an ear as Margaret described her walk with one of the new stable hands and Emma shrieked with delight. Emma occasionally glanced his way, concern clear in her hazel eyes, so he forced down his apprehensions and mustered a cheerful front.

It was very late when they went their separate ways, Emma and Margaret to the servants’ quarters, Gregory to his father’s chambers, and Oscar back to his jailer. A tight knot of dread crawled up Oscar’s throat as he carefully pushed open the door to the library. The comfortable chambers suddenly felt more like a prison than they had before. That nebulous feeling of lurking danger that had faded over the previous days was back in full.

He breathed a sigh of relief at the empty room that greeted him, and went to prepare for bed. As he undressed, he looked at his fine new clothes, his sturdy boots, the comfortable bed with its warm blankets, and made his decision.

Tomorrow he would leave all of it behind.


	11. Chapter 11

The day of Oscar’s escape dawned bright and clear. He woke to the raucous noise of a pair of sparrows squabbling outside the window. The air in the library was frigid. Oscar burrowed deep into his blankets, savoring the meager warmth that remained there. He spared a moment to regret the comforts he would be leaving behind, wry smile pressed into the pillow. Despite all his protestations, it seemed he had indeed been spoiled by the little luxuries offered to him here, and in just a few short days.

He could hear Wamba beginning to stir in the bedroom. It spurred him to throw back the blankets and scrabble quickly for the clothing he had abandoned at the bedside night before. He pulled his woolen tunic over his head and straightened the collar. As the chill in his limbs immediately began to ease, he thought that he would regret the loss of these fine clothes even more than the bed, but they would invite too much curiosity on the streets of the city.

Oscar’s plan was simple. He would wait for Wamba to depart to his daily duties, then make himself busy about the castle until evening. The stables should offer adequate shelter until he could use the cover of night to make for the west gate, that which led from the garden and was the least fortified of all those he had seen during his week of captivity. If he could force the lock, which it seemed to him must be easier from within than without, then he would be able to make his way south across the frozen moat to the riverbank.

He planned the route in his head as he pulled on his boots, deciding which passages were most likely to be free of guards who might question his movements. His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of the bedroom door swinging open. He looked up as Wamba entered, and was immediately thrown to see him clad in a tunic and trousers that closely resembled Oscar’s, rather than the long robes that were his usual dress. He shuffled into the room, clearly still fatigued with mussed hair and heavy lidded eyes. The tunic exaggerated the narrow cut of his hips, long legs hugged by dark wool. Oscar’s throat went dry at the sight.

“Aren’t you going out today?” he asked, standing from his place on the cot.

Wamba startled, and stared at him for a moment, as though surprised to find him there. Then he blinked.

“No,” he said, voice hoarse and faint. He cleared his throat and continued, “I’ve no duties to the king today.”

Oscar frowned. If Wamba did not leave, it might severely complicate his plans. He opened his mouth to ask for a more thorough explanation, when the bells of the chapel across the green began to toll.

“It’s Sunday,” he realized.

A faint smile appeared on Wamba’s face as he made his unsteady way to the hearth and knelt, beginning to lay a fire. “It is indeed.”

Oscar’s concern deepened. Sunday meant that the normal rhythm of life was disrupted while people gathered for worship in the churches and chapels of the city. If he was compelled to accompany Wamba to church, he would not have even the slightest chance to slip his supervision. At best, he might wait until evening when Wamba was asleep, or risk spending one more night here and make the attempt tomorrow.

Wamba coaxed the reluctant fire to life. He did not appear to be making any haste to leave, though the bells were ringing steadily, calling the faithful to prayer.

Oscar shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you not going to church?”

"No." Wamba's eyes did not leave the fire. "It has been some time since I attended mass.”

Oscar gaped at that. He did not know anyone who would dare to be absent from church as a regular practice. He remembered what Emma had said about the elder Cedric being a barbarian. Perhaps this was what she meant, though Oscar had believed even the Saxons to be Christians.

“Don’t you believe in God?”

“Yes, I believe in God.” Wamba rose from the hearth, brushing ash from his knees.

"Then why don't you go to church? Aren't you afraid you'll go to hell?”

“Oh, I have no doubt of my ultimate destination," Wamba said, with a wry little tilt to his mouth. "You should know that I have no desire to stop you should you wish to attend. I’m sure you can find your way to the chapel on your own.”

As the surprise of the odd revelation began to fade, it occurred to Oscar that this scenario was nearly as good as his original plan. If Wamba believed that Oscar was occupied at prayer, he would raise no alarm for some time after Oscar left, and with most of the castle occupied, there would be fewer guards to pose a barrier to his escape.

Oscar took a long look at Wamba, who stood waiting patiently for his decision, and made up his mind. “Yes. I can find my own way.”

Wamba nodded. “Off you go, then. You’ll be late if you tarry any longer. I’ll see about having a meal for both of us by the time you return.”

His casual kindness, as usual, was immediately disarming. Oscar imagined Wamba fetching food and waiting for him to return to share it. The thought nearly made him tell Wamba not to expect Oscar back, but he forced the urge back down and gave Wamba a forced smile instead as he made his way to the door. He looked back for a moment as he crossed the threshold. Wamba was motionless just as he had been, staring into the fire with distant eyes. Oscar pulled the door closed.

The castle was deserted. Oscar did not encounter a single soul until he emerged out into the yard between the keep and the outer wall and saw the last few stragglers making their way into the chapel in the distance. He stepped quickly back into the shadow of the doorway, watching as they were swallowed by the austere stone structure.

With a wary step, he emerged out into the light and peered around. There was not a single guard in sight. Oscar turned toward the south wall, where the channel connecting out into the deep moat was at its narrowest. It was his hope to drop down into it and traverse the surface of the frozen water out to the river.

He kept to the shadow of the keep as he trotted south, pausing every few moments to watch and listen for approaching feet. At this cautious pace, it took him several minutes to reach the moat. Peering down into the deep stone trough, he discovered that the ice was lower than expected. It looked perilously thin in places, dotted with patches of wetness that offered a view of the murky water below.

He had already come this far, so Oscar knelt at the edge of the stone and lowered himself backward into the moat. He stretched down with his toes, reaching to find the ice. When he felt it at last beneath the toe of his boot, he was stretched nearly to his limit, hands just barely hanging on the ledge above. He took a moment to breathe, trying to calm his heart, then released his hold on solid ground. The ice held.

Oscar lofted a desperate prayer to the clear blue sky as he shuffled around and began to inch his way toward the long, arched tunnel that led out to the river. His hesitant little steps tested the strength of each new patch of ice before he entrusted it with his full weight, but his progress was painfully slow, leaving him exposed in the bright sunlight. If someone were to look down from the parapet, he would have nowhere to hide.

Finally, joyfully, his hand closed around the frigid metal of the first gate across the tunnel. The bars left just enough room for him to force his body through with a grunt of effort. Then he was in the shadowed dark of the arched passageway, pushing against the low ceiling with both hands to keep himself centered and steady as he crept toward the second gate and freedom.

As it came into view, his heart dropped like a stone into his stomach. Oscar had assumed the outer gate would be identical to the first, a set of vertical bars with space between. Instead, it was a heavy latticed grate, the crossed iron bars leaving barely enough room for Oscar to slide an arm through, much less his entire body. He was trapped.

The welling despair threatened to force tears from Oscar's eyes, but he stamped it down and wracked his brain for another way. There was still a chance, albeit a slight one, that he could risk the portcullis. His success hinged entirely on the number of guards who remained on the gate while the castle was at prayer, and by Oscar's estimation his time was quickly running out.

He hastened back toward the first grate and forced his aching ribs through once more. He moved with much less caution, slipping and sliding precariously as he trekked along the surface of the moat toward the main drawbridge. It was only once he was directly below the wooden platform that he made the leap to lever himself up onto solid ground once more. He dashed across the bridge and into the barbican, straight toward the crank that would lift the portcullis and open his path to freedom.

His hands had just touched the wooden spokes when a creak of hinges raked like claws down his spine, sparking terror. He turned, cornered against the portcullis, to see the door to the parapet stairs open, a startled guard in full mail staring at him dumbfounded. Oscar snarled, backing away until his shoulders touched the cold iron of the last barrier between him and freedom.

“Stop!” The guard shouted, charging toward him with one hand reaching for the cudgel at his belt. Behind him, three of his fellows appeared at the far end of the drawbridge, returned from the chapel.

The last shards of hope in him crushed to dust beneath the despair of his failure, Oscar latched on to his desperation and did the only thing that was left to him. He fought.


	12. Chapter 12

The cell into which Oscar was thrown was woefully familiar. He stumbled to his knees, but leapt up again at once, flinging his bruised body against the metal bars as they slammed shut in his face. He gripped the cold iron in bloody fingers and bared his teeth at the guards.

“Let me out!” He wrenched at the bars in futile rage.

“Not a chance, you little terror. You’ll be lucky if you get off with a flogging after this. Stupid wretch.” The guard left the parting insult hanging behind him as he and his fellows walked away.

Fight still flaring hot in his blood, Oscar screamed at their backs. When he was ignored, he turned his impotent fury to the wooden buckets in his cell. He kicked out viciously at the nearest, sending a spray of water across the cell and dampening his own boots. He snatched up the other and flung it against the wall with a shout. The wood cracked loudly, the bucket falling in pieces to the wet stone floor.

Left without any convenient target, Oscar finally let himself collapse to the floor, pulling at his own hair and sobbing out his frustration into his knees. He was furious at the guards, at the king and at Wamba, but most of all at himself. If only he had planned better, waited for the right moment, he might have succeeded in his escape. His rashness had once again ruined his plans. It might very well cost him his life. If by some miracle his neck was spared, there was no end to the variety of punishments that might be inflicted. Each possibility his fevered imagination conjured was worse than the last.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the return of the guards. It felt like moments, but by the light on the floor, it had been several hours since he had been recaptured. “Time to pay, you little shit.” The cell door was quickly unlocked and three guards descended on him, grasping at his limbs. Whatever they had in store for him, Oscar was determined not to submit without a fight. He kicked out at their knees, and earned himself a heavy fist across the face for his trouble.

His vision blurred and his balance dangerously compromised, he was unable to do more than dig in his heels and slow their progress as much as possible. Another blow caught him in the side, sparking pain in already bruised ribs. He cursed ferociously, but finally let his body go limp, his dead weight his final protest. He watched listlessly as the stones of the passageway passed beneath him, letting them take him where they would.

When they came to a halt at last, he looked up with some surprise to find himself not before a gallows or a whipping post, but a familiar ironbound door. It opened at the guard’s sharp rap and he found himself eye to eye with a gray-faced Wamba. The room spun wildly as he was hurled to the floor at Wamba’s feet. “Your runaway, my lord.”

“What have you done to him?” Wamba barked, in a tone that Oscar had never heard from him. His resentment flared at the sudden heat in the normally level voice, the bald concern that dampened his temper and would not let Oscar hate his jailer as he wished. He looked up and found Wamba’s eyes level with his own, the noble’s knees on the stones just inches away.

“He fights like the devil, your lordship,” squawked the guardsman defensively, clearly unsure what to make of this odd behavior. Oscar shot him a hateful glare, head still spinning.

Meanwhile, Wamba’s cool hands brushed lightly against his throbbing face, gentle and soothing despite the sparking anger coupled with helpless pain in his dark eyes. “I understand that. But there was surely no need for this.”

The guard had clearly decided that the most prudent course was to agree, so he just nodded, a sour look on his face. “As you say, my lord. Will you be alright alone with him?”

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t be,” Wamba retorted sharply, standing and staring down the three armored men in his doorway as if they were recalcitrant children. “Thank you for returning him. That will be all.”

Baffled but chastened, the guards left, closing the door behind them. Oscar quickly bowed his head, painfully conscious of the fact that his fate was in Wamba’s hands now.

“What are we going to do with you, Oscar?” Wamba murmured.

Anger flared again in Oscar’s chest, and he spat, “Whatever you like, apparently.”

“Indeed.” Wamba was silent for a long moment. “Stand up, Oscar.”

It was the first time Oscar could remember Wamba giving him an order, rather than making a request. He pushed himself shakily to his feet and glared at the man.

“Over here. Sit down.” Wamba led him to the worn couch before the fire. He sat carefully, wincing as his ribs protested.

Wamba did not say anything more. He knelt down before the fire, where an iron kettle hung from a bar over the flames. He filled two clay mugs with the long-handled ladle. He handed one to Oscar, and kept the other for himself, settling in the tall wooden chair that sat close to the hearth, far from Oscar.

“What is it?” Oscar shifted the smooth, warm vessel between his hands, sniffing at the contents.

“Just milk and a bit of honey. An old friend made this for me many times, when I was in need of a few moments of peace.”

Oscar watched Wamba take a drink before he lifted the mug to his own lips. He immediately closed his eyes, savoring the sweet flavor. The rich mixture was indeed very soothing. Oscar’s shoulders began to slope and his head to droop as the last of the desperate energy that had driven his flight drained from his limbs and he found himself caught in the calming spell of the jumping fire and Wamba’s quiet presence. He wondered distantly how he could have believed ill of this man, whose gentle hands and voice soothed his hurts and won him mercy from brutal punishment, and whose eyes had flashed with sincere anger at the violence done to him.

Soft words broke into his guilty thoughts. “Why did you run?” Wamba’s contemplative gaze did not leave the fire as he spoke, though Oscar turned to look at him.

“You would pretend you don’t know.” Oscar grasped for the last retreating threads of his indignation, but Wamba had chosen his timing well, and Oscar could summon no heat to fuel his words. They sounded limp and childish to his ears. Wamba continued to observe the flames in silence, his chin resting on his hand, propped on the arm of his chair. Finally, shamed beyond anything he could remember, Oscar revealed the true cause for his flight in a sullen mumble.

“They said that you were like your father. They said he was a savage Saxon who took his boy slaves to his bed whenever he pleased.”

Wamba’s brows jumped. “That is a terrible thought indeed.”

“You… You spoke for me and you’ve given me things and I don’t know what you want in return. I don’t know what you want.”

Wamba’s head turned at last, and Oscar found himself pinned by that dark gaze, deadly serious and drowning in indescribable emotion. Oscar was suddenly fearful of those eyes. Wamba’s words, when he spoke, were calm.

“Cedric of Rotherwood was indeed a Saxon, and fiercely proud of his blood and of his honor. He would never in all his life have forced his attentions upon another, nor allowed such a thing to happen with his knowledge, and neither would I.”

Oscar stared wide-eyed, stunned to momentary silence by the ardent words. Soon, however, he found his own impassioned voice again. “Then for what purpose do you keep me here? Why won’t you let me go home?” His free hand clutched at his own hair in desperate frustration. Wamba turned away again.

“You are here because the condition upon which the king released you to me was that you be put to some use here for one year at the least. You are, of course, free to receive his original punishment, and leave.”

Oscar paled. “That’s no choice at all, and you know it.” He saw, at last, that there was to be no escape. “A year in this stone prison,” he spat. “What use would you make of me?”

Wamba was unruffled by his contempt. “It is as I have already said, Oscar. I would offer you a warm place to sleep and daily bread, and more than that I would offer you something of much greater value than the coins which condemned you to this most terrible fate. If you like, I would teach you to read and to write and something of the duties entrusted to me by the king, that you might one day be fit for an occupation less perilous than that to which you currently aspire.”

Oscar stared in disbelief. “Why?”

Wamba gave him a small, understanding smile. “We often do not know what we can become, until we are given a chance. It is a happier thing than you know, to allow yourself to change.”

It would take more than words for Oscar to believe such an extravagant offer. He steeled himself to ask the question that had been preying on his mind for a week. “Am I to be flogged?”

Wamba’s eyes widened. “Flogged? Of course not. Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?”

“I overheard you talking to the king.”

Wamba sighed, leaning back in his chair in a pronounced slump. He looked suddenly wan in the firelight. “You heard that, did you?”

“I did. I thought he was talking about me.”

“No, we were discussing someone else.”

“Who?”

“A man who made some very poor choices," Wamba answered evasively. "Anyway, that’s already been dealt with.”

Oscar considered that for a moment, then ventured, “What about for today?”

Wamba looked him in the eyes and said, with fierce sincerity, “You've no need to fear that here, Oscar. Please trust me on that, if you trust me on nothing else.”

“Alright,” Oscar whispered, feeling the guilt of the distress he had caused Wamba and the weight of his very eventful day crashing down on him at once.

“Will you allow me to see to your injuries?”

The look Wamba gave him was wary. With a flush of shame, Oscar was reminded again of the accusations he had flung at Wamba. Sitting here now, looking at the gentle man, the idea seemed so utterly preposterous that he could scarcely believe he had ever entertained the thought that Wamba would harm him. Wamba had never touched him in any inappropriate way, had hardly touched him at all until tonight. Even then, it was only to offer comfort. The memory of cool hands on his bruised face made Oscar crave that that tender attention again.

He nodded. “Yes. Please.”

These words won him a small smile. “Wait here.” Wamba disappeared into his bedroom for a moment, emerging with a wooden bowl of clean water, a linen cloth, and the medicine chest Oscar had discovered during his snooping.

These were placed on the low table before the couch. Wamba sat beside him, and carefully took his hands, turning them to examine the bloody scrapes he had earned in his fight. Once he had taken stock, he set to work tending the cuts and scrapes on Oscar's hands, wiping away the blood with a damp cloth before moving on to Oscar’s face, apologizing when the brush of the rough linen against the delicate skin beneath his eye made him wince. The water in the bowl grew steadily murkier as he worked, until at last Wamba was satisfied. The bathing was followed by the application of a clear poultice from a small earthenware jar, dabbed gently on each cut and scrape. Oscar watched Wamba's expression as he worked, fascinated by the fine furrow of concentration that appeared between his brows. This close, it was easy to see the mysterious scar that decorated the arch of his cheek, and other faint marks besides, scattered along his jaw and webbed at the corner of his mouth. When Wamba's dark eyes met his suddenly, he realized he was staring, and dropped his gaze, flushing. Wamba did not comment, just stoppered his little jar and placed it back in its slot in the medicine chest.

“Your ribs?” After a very brief moment of hesitation, Oscar pulled his tunic over his head and let Wamba examine his bruised torso. His fingers were light, but Oscar still flinched from each touch, the pain catching up with him as his stamina faded.

“Not broken, luckily. Just bruised. I’ll need to wrap them.” From his medicine chest, Wamba unrolled several long strips of linen, which he wound about Oscar’s chest, tying them off tightly with an apologetic look as Oscar hissed at the constriction.

At last, Wamba pulled away and gave Oscar a lopsided smile. “There. I should say you’ll last the night, in all likelihood.”

Oscar snorted, but he smiled back. He could no longer see any sense in fighting. Before he realized it, he had decided to trust Wamba. He had a year to learn if that trust was well founded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Part One


	13. Chapter 13

Learning to read turned out to be a much more tedious business than Oscar had imagined.

Just over one week had passed since his attempted escape, for which he had inexplicably received no punishment as of yet. He was starting to believe that Wamba had been sincere when he vowed to let no harm come to his charge. Instead, after his injuries were carefully tended, he had once again been fed and directed to his cot, where he stared at the feeble flicker of the waning firelight on the ceiling as he pondered his odd imprisonment. Rather than chains and hard bread, he had a clean bed and plenty to eat. Instead of rags, new clothes and sturdy boots to keep him warm through the frosty winter. If anything, his captivity was actually a marked improvement over his previous circumstances. On top of all of it, Wamba had offered to teach him to read. Oscar hardly knew anyone who could do more than make a few marks on a skin to keep a tally. He wondered what it would be like to discover the secrets of the heavy leather-bound books that lined the walls of the library, or to decipher the notes that Wamba scratched so painstakingly on his endless sheets of crisp parchment. He wondered when he would be able to start learning.

He received his answer sooner than expected. It was the very next day that he found himself presented with a pair of wax tablets and a fine-pointed metal stylus. On one tablet, Wamba had marked all the letters Oscar would need to know. The other was for him to practice. Wamba showed him how to hold the stylus, and how to press it into the soft wax in the proper patterns to shape letters. He demonstrated how to hold the tablet by its wooden back to heat the wax with a candle and press out the letters to create a blank canvas to start all over again.

Wamba still departed early every morning, disappearing off to his unexplained duties and leaving Oscar to tend to a variety of simple daily chores. He returned in the afternoon, sometimes cheerful, sometimes with an air of melancholy, but whatever his mood, he would sit with Oscar before the fire and work through the letters with him. Once Oscar was able to copy the tablet with ease, flush with pride, Wamba congratulated him warmly. Then he took the guide away and made Oscar do it from memory.

It was on the second day of struggling through this task that he finally grew so frustrated with his slow progress that he flung his stylus down in exasperation. It stuck in the wax of the tablet, standing straight up. Oscar shoved all of it away from him in disgust, and let his body fall back onto the floor, spreading his arms out on the worn rug beneath him with an aggravated growl.

“Bested so soon, Oscar?”

Wamba looked up from where he sat at his desk, concentrated on his own writing, to tease Oscar for his fit of temper.

Oscar scowled at the ceiling. “It’s impossible. I’ll never learn.”

“That’s rather hasty, is it not? You’ve only been at it for a week. I hardly expected you to be one to surrender so easily to such a puny foe as letters, after the fight you gave those guards.”

Oscar turned his head just enough to catch sight of Wamba’s expression from where he lay. Even at the odd angle, he could clearly see the amusement there, tinged with an easy fondness that had appeared more often of late. Seeing it, Oscar could not help but show him an answering smile, rueful though it was. He heaved himself back up and crossed his arms atop his knees.

“How long is this meant to take?”

Wamba considered the question before answering noncommittally, “That depends on you. Some people learn faster than others.”

“Maybe I’m just not bright enough to learn. Maybe I’m too old.”

“Nonsense. I was nearly your age when I started, and I manage passably enough.”

“How long did it take you, then?”

“A year or so, actually, but those were different circumstances. I did not have much freedom to practice.”

Oscar frowned. “Why not?”

“My tutor was somewhat occupied with other matters, and I had duties of my own,” Wamba admitted. “But in the end I learned. You’ve a great advantage on me in that regard, so I would expect you to become proficient in a much shorter period of time.”

Somewhat chastened, Oscar sighed and reached for his stylus once more. He had barely taken it in hand when Wamba spoke again.

“Well, I’ve had enough of working for the day. What do you say to some supper?”

“Yes, alright. Would you like me to fetch something from the kitchens?” Oscar offered absently, concentrating on the down stroke of an uneven ‘q’ on his tablet.

“Actually, I had something else in mind. How would you like to accompany me to court, Oscar?”

Oscar looked up. Wamba was settled back in his chair now, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Court?”

“Yes. You’ve worked very hard these past few days. Perhaps we could call it a reward.”

Oscar scoffed. “A reward? To brush shoulders with those pompous windbags?”

Wamba laughed. “Windbags they may be, but they control the fates of the great majority of the people of this kingdom. Not a reward, then. Let us call it an opportunity for another, equally valuable, sort of study.”

“The study of windbags?”

“The study of men,” Wamba rejoined. “I promise you it can be very illuminating, if you pay attention.”

Oscar pushed himself to his feet and stood with hands on hips. He pushed his nose up into the air and said, in as pompous a voice as he could manage, “Then I shall endeavor to listen much and say little.”

Wamba stood as well, a sly little smile on his lips. “I don’t doubt you’ll try, Oscar. Whether you succeed remains to be seen.”

“Have a little faith!”

“Perhaps if you keep your mouth full,” Wamba conceded, opening the door.

“Hey!” Oscar scrambled after him into the hall, falling into step easily at Wamba’s side.

They made their way through the halls at an unhurried pace, while Wamba gave Oscar a few pieces of advice on courtly behavior.

“Remember, you’re there to observe, not to cause a stir. You should stay close to me, at least for now. Try to be polite, and bow to anyone who approaches you. Of course, it should go without saying, it is improper to address the king directly unless he has spoken to you first.” Wamba stopped for a moment, looking pensive. “Actually, if you just make sure to behave in a manner precisely opposite to your first visit to court, you will do splendidly.”

“Oh, very funny,” Oscar scowled.

“Cheer up, Oscar. At least they’re not letters.”

Wamba nodded to the guards stationed before the hall as they passed through the main doors and into the grand space that Oscar remembered from his one brief visit on the day he met Wamba. It was remarkable how much more he was able to take in, now that he was moving under his own power rather than being manhandled by irate guards. He craned his neck to examine the carved beams supporting the vast vaulted ceiling, making out alternating patterns of elaborate roses and the lion rampant that adorned the king’s crest. Between the mighty columns supporting this structure, the heavy wooden tables were piled with platters wafting forth delicious aromas of stewed vegetables, roasted meat and fresh baked loaves.

Oscar’s reverie was cut short by a nasal voice calling mockingly from his left. “Cedric. Decided to grace us once again with your illustrious presence, I see.” Oscar’s eyes snapped to the speaker, a small man with beady dark eyes and a pointed nose, the combination of which gave him an appearance more than a little reminiscent of a rat. The sharp smile he directed at Wamba held not an ounce of warmth, just as the one Wamba offered back was completely devoid of sincerity, as was his shallow bow.

“As ever, Lord Reginald, I was unable to resist the delights of your fair company for long.” Oscar snorted at the bald taunt. This had the unfortunate effect of drawing Reginald’s attention to his presence.

“Brought your new dog with you, as well,” he sneered, lip curling in evident disgust. “I’m surprised you don’t keep him on a leash, a little cur like that.”

Oscar bristled, and would have made comment, but Wamba placed a quelling hand on his arm without even turning his head. “Not all of us find it necessary to chain our servants to ensure their obedience, my lord.”

“Broken him in already, have you?” Reginald’s smirk turned predatory. “I should have liked to have seen that.”

A stinging flush crept up into Oscar’s cheeks. He should have expected the rumors that would be circulating, after hearing the servants' gossip about Wamba. Somehow, it had not occurred to him until now that others might draw the same conclusions he had.

“That’s quite enough of your slander, Reginald,” another voice interrupted the verbal sparring taking place. It belonged to a large man with a round belly and a thick beard shot through with gray.

Wamba bowed to him also, with considerably more sincerity than he had shown to Reginald. “Lord Geoffrey.”

The portly noble nodded to acknowledge him, but continued to speak to Reginald. “I recommend you leave the lad be. From what I hear, Cedric’s well on his way to winning his bet with the king.”

Reginald gave a diffident shrug, “I’m not one to judge another man’s hobbies. If Cedric chooses to tame wild animals with his time it is no concern of mine.” He shot Wamba a poisonous glance. “Just watch that he doesn’t bite any of the king’s guests, or he might need to be put down.”

With that parting shot, he drifted away to refill his goblet from the carafe on a nearby table. Geoffrey shook his head and gave Wamba a smile.

“There’s no curing that one.”

“I fear not,” Wamba replied, “but it should not surprise me if Lord Reginald were to discover himself under particular scrutiny before the winter is out. If he does, it may do much to improve his attitude. Or at least to temper his tongue.”

“Oh? You know something?”

Wamba’s grin was all teeth. “If I did, Lord Geoffrey, I could certainly not say. Betraying the king’s confidence is never a wise course.”

“No,” Geoffrey agreed, brows climbing, “No, indeed.” His thoughts seemed to drift for a moment, before he forcibly returned his attention to the Wamba. “Incidentally, I heard that your brother is on his way back to London. When should we be expecting him?”

Oscar did not hear Wamba’s reply. A fierce prickling on the back of his neck made him turn, catching the eye of one of the servants stationed in the shadows along the wall. It was Gregory, a wine jug in his hand and an expression of utter disbelief on his face. He mimed his incredulity to Oscar, who just shrugged in return. He did not know why he was here either, except that Wamba had invited him. Gregory rolled his eyes theatrically, and spun his hand frantically in the air in front of his face, a gesture Oscar interpreted to mean that he should explain later.

He turned back just in time to see Lord Geoffrey moving off. Wamba was looking at him expectantly. “A friend of yours?”

Oscar shrugged. He was unsure if Gregory could be counted as a friend just yet. He was still so uncertain about the people he had met in the castle. The thought made him long to have Cara or even Simon within reach. He would dearly love to talk to someone he trusted about this whole debacle. 

Aiming for distraction, he asked, “Why did you tell Lord Geoffrey about the king’s plans for Lord Reginald?”

Wamba tilted his head, appearing honestly confused. “The king’s plans? I’m sure I never mentioned such a thing.”

Oscar goggled at him. “I heard you! Just now!”

“Ah, but I believe I said merely that Lord Reginald might benefit from a bit of extra scrutiny, and that I could not betray the king’s confidence. Both of these things are true, though they are not, in this precise instance, related.” The corner of Wamba’s mouth tilted up, very slightly.

It was a long moment before Oscar realized what the man was saying. When it finally dawned on him, he could not help the delighted grin that quickly spread across his face. “That is clever. But what good does it do to let Geoffrey think the king is taking an interest in Reginald? They don’t seem very friendly with one another.”

“It has several benefits, actually,” Wamba murmured, and he took Oscar’s arm to lead him further into the hall, toward a table. This put his mouth close enough to Oscar’s ear that his words would not be overheard by curious ears. “First, it lets Geoffrey feel that he has or soon will have an advantage over his rival, and it lets him believe he has been allowed into the king’s confidence. This will increase his loyalty. Also, you must understand that none of these allegiances are as straightforward as they seem. They’re all the same breed, these nobles, and well entangled with one another. My words will almost certainly be relayed back to Reginald himself, by way of several intermediary messengers. By the time he hears them, my insinuation will be a certainty, and he will walk on eggshells for a months to avoid giving any appearance of impropriety to the king.”

Oscar gaped. It was ingenious. With just a few words, and without involving the king, Wamba had effectively rendered the unpleasant lord toothless. It was the perfect retribution.

Wamba just smiled at his dumbstruck young charge, and directed him toward a long bench with a gentle hand on his shoulder. Oscar sat, as Wamba took a place across from him and served food for both of them and greeted the lords and ladies already at the table.

Oscar ate his bread and venison, and did not speak. He kept his attention on Wamba, and listened, and learned.


	14. Chapter 14

Oscar was making his way to the steward’s office the following morning when he was ambushed. His arm was seized in a ferociously strong grip, which is his assailant used to wrench him sideways and shove him into a narrow storeroom that was stuffed with dried rushes. He caught himself on the edge of a splintering wooden shelf and whirled around with fists at the ready. 

He barely stopped himself in time to keep from jabbing Emma in the face. She dodged to the side, eyes wide, and slapped at his hand.

“Watch it!”

“What do you mean sneaking up on me like that?” Oscar bellowed at her, more badly rattled than he would care to admit. He shook out his hands violently to spend the burst of frantic energy still thrumming through his veins and causing his heart to race.

Emma crossed her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow at his agitation, her cap sitting slightly askew after the brief scuffle. “I hardly expected you to be so jumpy.”

Oscar threw up his arms. “I’ve been caught and thrown into cells more than enough times to make anyone wary. What do you want?”

“Well, that’s certainly a story I’d like to hear later,” Emma said, “but not the reason I came looking for you.” She quickly turned to push the storeroom door closed, leaning back against it with arms akimbo. The only light in the small room now came from the narrow slit of a window behind Oscar. It was plenty enough to see the look of eager curiosity on Emma’s small face.

“Well?” Oscar prompted.

“Gregory said he saw you in the hall last night. That you attended court with Cedric.” She leaned forward to watch his expression, as though he might lie to her about something that was so easily proven.

“Yes,” he admitted, and watched a gleeful smile appear on her face. “What of it?”

“It’s unheard of, that’s what! Most of the nobility will hardly take a trusted servant into the king’s court, much less a prisoner masquerading as a servant! It’s amazing! They must have been spitting blood at the impudence.” She pealed out a laugh that Oscar was not entirely sure was not at his expense.

“So Cedric does things a little differently. You told me that yourself.”

Emma’s mirth faded to a chuckle and she wiped at her eyes. “He’s different, yes, but I had no idea he was so brazen. He’s barely what that lot would consider worthy to count as one of them, with his Saxon blood and his young age, and he does this. No better way to prove that he’s a favorite of the king’s, I suppose.”

“How do you know all this?” Oscar wondered, baffled at the level of insight Emma seemed to possess about the court, not to mention the speed at which information was passed to her from various sources.

“Oh, Oscar,” she laughed, reaching out to pat his arm, “the castle servants know everything. Anyone who believes otherwise is a fool. Though not as much a fool as your master, I should think.” She chuckled to herself, shaking her head.

Oscar was finding it a challenge to see the humor in the situation, hearing her words. “You don’t think someone would seek revenge on him for this, do you?” he asked, a doubtful frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Emma sobered, taking in his disquietude, and she shrugged. “I can’t say for certain, Oscar. These nobles do things beyond my understanding. But as long as Cedric holds the king’s favor he is likely safe from direct threats. His reputation may be another matter.”

“What do you mean?” Oscar’s visit to court had shown him clearly how very little he understood about the dangerous political maneuvering that was Wamba’s world. He was determined to learn, and any insight Emma could offer would only aid him in that pursuit.

“As I’ve already told you, there are plenty of rumors about him, and about his strange behavior. You’re already part of that, you know. There are those among the nobles who are unhappy with Cedric’s sway with the king. They’ll say anything they can think of to discredit him. Considering how close his majesty is with Cedric’s brother, I’m not surprised they feel that one faction may be gaining too much influence at court.”

That comment jarred loose a memory from the night before. “His brother! Someone mentioned him last night. Who is he?”

Emma’s scornful eyebrow was one again climbing up amongst her mousy curls. “Really, Oscar? You don’t know?”

Oscar flushed a little at her mockery. “I’ve only been here a fortnight.”

“You don’t have to live in the tower to know of Wilfred of Ivanhoe. He’s legendary, even among the regular folk.”

“Ivanhoe?” Oscar exclaimed. Emma was right. Wilfred of Ivanhoe was famed throughout London, probably throughout the entirety of England. He was the king’s steadfast comrade in the Holy Land, riding out with Richard over the objections of his own father. The story of how he had returned at the side of the disguised king as his only companion, built an army, and won back the stolen throne was legend. He had heard the tale sung countless times. It was not that many years since Oscar, Simon and their gang had acted out the very story as they played at knights with sticks for swords in the dusty streets of the city.

“Yes,” Emma said. “It’s hard to believe they could be brothers, isn’t it? They could hardly be less alike, Ivanhoe a brave knight and his brother a weedy little scholar.”

Oscar's mild annoyance at her easy dismissal of Wamba cut through the worse of his stupefaction, though he decided not to say anything. The matter at hand was more pressing. He had seen Ivanhoe precisely once, as he rode out of the city with the king’s cavalcade. It occurred to him the next might be a great deal more personal.

He gave Emma a shaky smile. “I’ll have to make a comparison when he arrives.”

Emma’s calm abruptly shattered. “What do you mean? He’s coming here?”

“Yes.” It was Oscar’s turn to smirk. “He should be arriving within the week, I believe.”

“Oh!” Emma shrieked, making Oscar wince a bit at the sudden piercing pitch of her voice. “I have to tell Margaret!”

“What? Why?”

“She’ll faint for certain. She’s gone on Sir Ivanhoe. Positively smitten.”

From her reaction, Oscar suspected that Emma might be rather smitten herself. He did not have a chance to prod her, however, as she was out the door before he could even open his mouth to speak again, charging off down the hall with a shouted command over her shoulder that he should come to the stables that night.

Oscar did not see her that night, or the next. He had graduated from individual letters to words, and spent two night painstakingly copying out the Lord's prayer over and over with Wamba’s patient guidance. It was on the third day after his hurried talk with Emma that he finally met Wilfred of Ivanhoe for himself.

He had just finished clearing up the remains of supper when a sharp knock sounded on the library door. Wamba turned from the fire to answer it, and Oscar spied a liveried page standing in the hall, delivering his message in a piping voice. Wamba thanked him and he quickly ran off.

“I’m needed in the main courtyard. Why don’t you come along?” Wamba asked him, standing with one hand bracing the open door.

“Me?” Oscar asked. “What about the dishes?”

Wamba smiled and tilted his head to indicate the direction of the courtyard. “They will wait. Come, Oscar. There’s someone you should meet, and he’ll be arriving very shortly.”

Oscar immediately suspected who the new arrival would be, and his heart began to pound with excitement. He forced himself to hold his tongue, however, as he trailed Wamba through the castle and out into the courtyard, where the lengthening rays of the sun cast everything in hues of warm bronze and gold. A small group of people had come out to greet the arriving party, including the stable master and the captain of the guard, who smiled gently at Wamba as he took a place standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Wamba returned the smile, and Oscar thought it was the most comfortable he had yet seen Wamba, relaxed and content with the dusk painting his hair and face with a subtle glow. The guard captain leaned down to murmur something in Wamba’s ear that Oscar could not hear but immediately resented, for the way it made Wamba flush even as he nodded agreement.

They had barely settled into position when the guard atop the wall gave a shout at the immense gate began to swing open on torturously creaking hinges. Three riders came into sight, trotting across the bridge toward the gate with a raucous clumping of hooves on wood, transforming to a clatter as they crossed through the portcullis and into the courtyard. It was immediately obvious which man was Ivanhoe. He rode at the front of the party, on a beautiful white charger whose legs were spattered with dirty snow and mud. His surcoat was equally white, a proud blue crest with gold lions emblazoned across the front. His head was bare, and he had a helm clutched in one hand, clearly recently removed. His golden blonde hair flowed around his shoulders, dyed the same bronzy hue as Wamba’s by the evening light.

Ivanhoe dismounted quickly, handing off his stallion to the stable master who came forward to take the reins. Two stable hands rushed past to take the horses of his companions. Ivanhoe said something to the stable master and clapped him on the shoulder, then turned. A dazzling smile instantly lit his face.

“Wamba!” he called, striding forward to clasp his brother’s hands tightly in his own, his expression full of such pure joy at the reunion that Oscar spared a thought suddenly for his own brother, and felt a lump rise in his throat.

“My lord,” Wamba bowed, his own face radiating that happiness Oscar had noted earlier. His smile only widened as Ivanhoe laughed.

“Now, now. None of that.”

“Of course,” Wamba acceded with a respectful nod. “You look well, Wilfred.”

“I feel it!” the knight laughed. “A slow few weeks at Rotherwood were just the thing to give me back my good spirits.”

“How fares your lady?”

“Rowena is well,” Ivanhoe said, with deep satisfaction, “and little Hereward is full six months old now, and strong as an ox!”

“I am glad to hear it,” Wamba said, and it was readily clear how true those words were.

“That’s enough talk of home for now. I will satisfy all your curiosity, and give you all the messages I was charged to relay as well, once we are settled by a fire and out of this blasted cold.”

Ivanhoe turned then to the guard captain standing at Wamba’s shoulder. “Farren! Well met. How have you been? This one keeping out of trouble?”

The two clasped arms and exchanged a smile of greeting. “Tolerably well, my lord. Though he has developed something of a habit of picking up strays from the dungeons.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” Ivanhoe’s eyes were on Oscar suddenly. He stiffened under the piercing blue gaze that seemed to see through him completely, wondering if rabbits might feel this way when in a hunter's sights. “This is the little thief, then?”

“Yes,” Wamba said. He gave a little wave to invite Oscar to step forward. “This is Oscar. Oscar, this is Wilfred of Ivanhoe.”

Ivanhoe’s assessing gaze was no less unnerving the second time he met it. This man had power, influence with Wamba and with the king, possibly enough to override Wamba’s decision and have Oscar sent back to the dungeons if he was deemed unfit. So he stood straight, and forced himself to meet Ivanhoe’s stare with one of his own.

It was Ivanhoe who finally broke, with a chuckle. “Well, I can certainly see why you like him,” he told Wamba. Then he looked back at Oscar, his gaze considerably friendlier this time. “You’re quite a lucky little scoundrel, you know. I suggest you make the most of this, and take care to keep out of trouble while you’re under Wamba’s guardianship.”

“Careful, Wilfred,” Wamba interjected, his voice throbbing with mirth, “he has no use for advice from those who have spent their lives cradled in silk beds.”

Oscar reddened to hear his rash words repeated in Wamba’s amused voice, but Ivanhoe’s reply surprised him. The knight laughed. “Well, he is truly lucky to have found you, then.” He clapped his gloved hands. “Now, I really must get inside and into some dry clothes. The snow has soaked me through completely. But we will talk later. I shall see you at table?”

Wamba nodded, and stepped aside so that Wilfred could pass. The knight strode past them into the keep. Oscar turned to Wamba. “What did he mean by that?”

Wamba smiled. “Only that I am very fond of my bed.”

He turned to follow Ivanhoe into the keep, with a parting wave to the captain, Farren, and would say no more on the subject.

That night, after Wamba left to meet with Ivanhoe, Oscar went to the stables to find his friends. When Oscar told them about Ivanhoe’s arrival in extravagant detail, right down to the flare of his surcoat and the glow of sunset on his shining mail, Emma and Margaret both definitely swooned.

Oscar did not blame them. He was feeling a mite smitten himself.


	15. Chapter 15

After Ivanhoe’s arrival, Wamba suddenly had very little time for Oscar. Where previously he would linger over their simple breakfast of dark bread and cheese and ask how Oscar planned to occupy himself throughout the day, sometimes offer suggestions that Oscar inevitably followed, now he was gone nearly at first light. Some days he was away before Oscar even opened his eyes. On those days, there was always a scrap of parchment and a tray on Wamba’s desk, waiting for him. He could not quite puzzle out the notes just yet, but he recognized the shape of his own name across the top of each, and so he folded them carefully away, in order, in the small chest tucked beneath his bunk, saving them for the day he could decipher their simple messages.

That curiosity was enough to spur him to practice his letters, even without Wamba there to tutor him. Once his chores were done and his supper eaten, he stationed himself before the fire with his tablets to practice. With each repetition, his strokes grew more confident, and he was able to sound out the words of the simple prayer with ease. It was here that Wamba found him when he finally returned from his business with Ivanhoe on the evening of the third day. Oscar looked up as the door opened, watching Wamba shuffle into the room. In the brief moment before Wamba saw him, he was able to read deep exhaustion on his face, and something not unlike pain. Then Wamba caught sight of Oscar and the look was quickly replaced with a somewhat weary smile.

“Hello, Oscar. I’m pleased to see you being such a diligent student, even in my absence.”

“Well, it’s not like you gave me much choice, is it? Leaving notes about every day when you know very well I can’t make heads or tails of them,” Oscar scoffed to cover his sudden unease at the brief glimpse of Wamba’s discomfort.

“Seen through my subterfuge so easily, have you?” Wamba chuckled softly. He came to sit on the worn couch at Oscar’s back, lowering himself carefully to the padded seat and leaning back to let his head fall to rest and his eyes slide closed. He moved like a much older man.

“Are you well?” Oscar blurted, staring at Wamba’s face, hoping to find another hint of truth there.

“Yes, Oscar. I’m well. Just a bit tired,” Wamba reassured him.

“Can I bring you something?”

Wamba lifted his head just enough to peer at Oscar from one lidded dark eye. He seemed to be considering for a long moment, then finally nodded.

“I know it’s late, but if I could trouble you to find some of the kitchen girls and help them fill the bath, I would be very grateful.”

Oscar hopped to his feet at once. “Of course. Just wait here.”

“I intend to,” Wamba murmured, his head falling back to the couch once more. Oscar had a strong suspicion that he would be asleep before the bath was ready, but said nothing. He merely pulled on his boots and set off into the empty torchlit corridors for the kitchen.

He was barely down the first flight of stairs when he heard someone approaching from the opposite direction, the clink of metal leaving little doubt that the newcomer was a noble. They were the only ones who wore a sufficient quantity of adornments to jangle as they walked. Sure enough, the figure who came into view around the curve of the staircase was Ivanhoe, his hair tied back with a leather thong and a sword and dagger dangling from his belt.

The knight glanced up quickly when he caught sight of Oscar’s boots, one hand going unconsciously to rest on the hilt of his sword, wary even here in the king’s castle.

“Oh,” he sighed, a small smile appearing on his clean-shaven face. “Sorry if I gave you a fright. Oscar, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my lord,” Oscar nodded, not quite certain what to make of this noble casually wandering the corridors this late in the evening.

“You haven’t seen Wamba, by chance, have you?” Ivanhoe asked, still looking up at Oscar from his position several steps further down.

“Yes,” Oscar said. “I just came from his rooms. He’s asked for a bath.”

Ivanhoe nodded. “A splendid idea. I was going to suggest it quite strongly, actually, if he didn’t see to it himself. He’s been getting stiffer by the day, brittle as an old log, though he clearly thinks he’s been hiding it.”

Unsure how to respond to this casual confidence, Oscar merely shrugged.

"Well, I won't keep you." Ivanhoe stepped to the side to allow Oscar to sidle past down the stairs. As he pushed by in the narrow stairwell, Ivanhoe added, close into Oscar’s ear, “Fetch up a jug of wine while you’re down there as well, won’t you?”

“Yes, my lord,” Oscar replied, flushing a little at the knight’s proximity. Keeping his eyes down, he hurried on, almost tripping down the stairs in his haste to flee the unnerving feeling.

The kitchen was dark, most of the fires banked for the night, but he found a pair of young scullions sorting the clean dishes into their proper places for the morning meal. He quickly recruited their ill-humored services in filling buckets from the well in the garden and shuttling them up to Wamba’s bedroom. He went in search of Ivanhoe’s wine, emerging from the cellar with a skin that he hoped would be acceptable. All the best vintages were kept under lock and key to prevent the servants from helping themselves to the king’s stores. He scooped up a pair of wooden cups as well, as Wamba kept nothing on hand.

By the time he returned to Wamba’s chamber, the first pair of buckets was waiting for him in the corridor, scullions nowhere to be found. He carefully stepped around them to first unburden himself of the wine.

“It’s not enough, Wamba.” Oscar stopped stock still just before the connecting door between the bedroom and library when he heard Ivanhoe’s voice, words carrying clearly through the open door. “You need to eat, and you need to take care of yourself. There are many now who depend on you remaining able-bodied and sharp-witted, and you will be neither if you let me or anyone else push you beyond your limitations.”

“Yes, my lord,” Wamba murmured.

From his vantage, Oscar could see Wamba still seated on his usual corner of the couch, and Ivanhoe beside him. As he watched, the knight raised a hand to brush Wamba’s hair back from his face and tip up his chin.

“You know, I am quite curious how many reminders it will take to break that stubborn habit.”

“Quite a few more than you’ve given me so far, Wilfred,” was the answer, spoken wearily but with clear warmth.

Ivanhoe smiled gently. “There we are.” He pulled his hand back, and Oscar chose that moment to enter the room, making sure to step heavily enough that he would be heard before he was seen. Ivanhoe turned at his approach.

“Ah! Excellent.” He took the skin and cups from Oscar’s hands, pouring out a measure first for Wamba, then for himself. “I trust you’re making equal progress on the bath?”

“Yes, my lord,” Oscar answered him, and turned to Wamba. “I’ll fetch you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you, Oscar,” Wamba’s shadowed eyes were fond.

Oscar returned to the bedroom where he pulled the tub down from its usual place against the wall and positioned it before the fire. He went to fetch the water buckets and discovered that they had been joined by two more. The first went into the kettle over the fire and the next into the bath itself. He stoked the fire, adding more wood, then tugged the bathing screen from the wall and set it between the fire and the door to catch the heat from the flames and warm the air around the tub. He hung a linen bathing sheet over the screen. When the kettle boiled, a few minutes later, he carefully tipped it into the tub and refilled it with another bucket of cold water. For each bucket that went into the kettle another was added to the tub directly, keeping it at a comfortable temperature. Finally, the last kettleful was emptied and the bath was ready.

When Oscar returned to the library, Ivanhoe was gone and his cup was resting empty on the low table. Wamba was bent over his lap, and Oscar suspected that he had fallen asleep until he rounded the couch and saw that the man was awake and carefully pressing words into one of Oscar’s tablets.

“Your bath is ready,” Oscar said by way of greeting.

“Thank you, Oscar.” Wamba did not look up, but continued to draw the stylus in his hand across the surface of the wax. At last he finished the final letter with a little flourish, and stood. He held the tablet out to Oscar. “I thought you might be ready to move on to something a bit different.”

“What does it say?” Oscar asked, peering at the familiar shapes that spelled unfamiliar words.

Wamba smiled. “That is for you to discover.”

“You’re not even going to give me a hint?”

“I’ve given you plenty of hints already. I do hope you kept the notes.”

“I did,” Oscar admitted. Wamba looked pleased.

“Then you have everything you need. I’ll bid you goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The door closed softly behind Wamba, leaving Oscar alone with the fire, the wine, and a puzzle to be solved. Though Oscar thought perhaps no puzzle was more fascinating than Wamba himself.


	16. Chapter 16

Over the course of his first weeks in the tower, Oscar had learned much of his new master. Wamba was bold and sardonic at court, speaking his mind fearlessly to the most powerful men in the land, but his true nature was quiet and withdrawn, and his evenings were spent, more often than not, in solitary pursuits. In that quiet space, he had also made room for Oscar. He was a patient teacher, though somewhat prone to amiable jests at Oscar’s expense.

Oscar admired his hushed grace and his strange contradictions of personality that were all the more endearing for his confusion at the irritation they caused Oscar. Wamba was unusually susceptible to cold, but would not call a servant to lay a fire or prepare a bath, waiting until someone happened by on other business before very politely requesting whatever it was he required. He insisted that Oscar keep himself well fed, and inquired regularly about his meals, but would forget to eat himself until his brother or Oscar reminded him. For all his waking composure, he was plagued by frequent nightmares, which sometimes caused him to clench his hands and bite his lip until they bled, evidence that Oscar never failed to note in the light of day. Though undoubtedly of an appearance that the court ladies found admirable, and of an age when he should arguably be contemplating marriage, he displayed no desire for that sort of attention. Even his formal garments were unadorned, his sleeves long and his collar high.

The mystery was only redoubled the first time Oscar was pulled aside by Margaret and handed an intricately folded and delicately perfumed square of parchment that he was asked to deliver to Wamba. He handed it over that night with a mischievous grin, attention rapt on Wamba’s reaction. It was not quite as he had expected.

“Letter for you.”

Wamba hesitated for a moment before taking the unassuming little packet from Oscar’s hand, looking oddly resolute. He turned it over in his hands, brushing a finger across the name inscribed on the front in an elegant hand, then eased a careful thumb beneath the dark red wax seal and lifted it from the parchment. He unfolded it in such a way that Oscar was not unable to catch a glimpse of the words inside, but from the way Wamba’s expression softened as he read, it was clear enough what sort of message the letter contained. Oscar was surprised when Wamba rose and, without comment, bent to pull a small wooden box from the lowest shelf on one of the bookcases. He opened the lid just enough to slide the letter inside, then let it fall closed again.

All this Oscar watched bewildered. “Aren’t you even going to write a reply?”

Wamba looked up at him, his hand resting atop the faded wood of the box. “No, Oscar.”

“Why not?” he exclaimed in disbelief.

“I cannot return her sentiment." Wamba stated, a simple truth.

“Who is it from? Is she hideous?”

“She is not, but it matters little,” Wamba said softly. He lifted the lid from the box, revealing at least half a dozen letters, each carefully refolded and placed inside for safekeeping. “It is natural, I suppose, that someone in my position in the court would garner interest, but I truly have nothing to offer them, and to pretend otherwise would serve nothing but my own vanity.”

Oscar’s frown deepened as he attempted to make sense of this puzzling logic. “You mean you don’t like any of them? Even a little?”

“It is not about liking them, Oscar. It is about what they expect from a match and the very great divide between that and what I can provide.”

“Why don’t you just burn the letters then?” he asked, throwing up his hands in frustration at this response.

Wamba looked suddenly melancholy, his eyes softening again as he replaced the lid on the box. “That would be cruel indeed. These are very beautiful sentiments, and it took a great deal of courage to commit them to paper, to entrust these letters into others’ hands. I may not be in a position to respond, but I would not dishonor their writers by destroying what they took such pains to create.”

“They might prefer that the evidence be destroyed, if you spurn them all,” Oscar could not help but point out.

Wamba sighed, growing exasperated. “I said I would not commit a response to paper, but that does not mean I will let this letter pass unacknowledged. I will seek out the lady tomorrow and explain. I have remained on good terms with most of these ladies, actually.”

That was the end of the conversation. Wamba slid the box back into its place on the shelf and returned to his writing. The next day, when Oscar caught sight of him in the central courtyard, he was speaking quietly with a lovely young woman with long gold hair. His expression was very earnest, and though her eyes glittered a bit wetly she clasped his hands tightly and smiled before taking her leave. After that, Oscar could no longer convince himself that Wamba was unaware of the attention he drew. Instead, he was left to wonder what it was that prevented the odd, quiet man from finding companionship.

It was not only the ladies with whom Wamba had a complex relationship. The more time he spent in the tower, the more Oscar came to resent the castle servants who spread lies about Wamba in the kitchens and back corridors. The rumors about him and his strange habits were so numerous, the only real consensus seemed to be that he was best avoided. His respectful manner was aberrant, and the servants saw it as an excuse to ignore him, and only entered his quarters when it was otherwise unavoidable. Even Emma was guilty of this neglect, though she spoke of Wamba sympathetically and was usually the first to relay new gossip to Oscar. When the kitchen girls gave him food, it was without fail the undercooked or overdone remains of some earlier spread. These he regarded with a resigned sort of disinterest, and they were taken away largely untouched. The result of all this deliberate neglect on the part of the castle servants was that Wamba, who would not seek them out, laid his own fire most nights, crouched shivering on the flagstones to spark the tinder, and took meals only when the thought occurred to him, which was rarely.

This evasion of Wamba and neglect of his care, once the malice in them had become plain to him, drove Oscar to fits of temper. He took it upon himself to perform the duties that Wamba had never actually assigned him. He built roaring fires in the evenings, heated kettles of water for the bath, and fetched meals from the kitchens himself, making it his task to upbraid the serving girls who sought to send him away with burnt scraps of meat, dry crusts and filmy broth. He demanded the foods that he hoped would tempt Wamba’s appetite, and as he learned more of the quiet man’s preferences he filled plates that he knew would not go uneaten, brimming with savory soups and ripe fruits and warm loaves with honey or hard, crumbled cheese. Simple fare, but it won him a grateful smile every time.

“Thank you, Oscar.” The soft words became the purpose of his work, and Wamba never failed to offer them for any task, no matter how small. The thanks warmed him, and also perplexed him, as though Wamba had never had anyone to take care of him before.

For weeks, Oscar wondered. Then, in one night, all was made clear.

Oscar woke suddenly that night, eyes opening to near darkness. The hour was so late that the fire was little more than coals casting a weak glow into the room. He blinked up at the ceiling and listened, unsure what had woken him.

Suddenly, a sharp cry rang out, from the direction of Wamba’s bedroom. Oscar jumped up, throwing off his blankets and moving toward the door before he even had time to think, the sound of his own galloping heartbeat loud in his ears. He paused for a moment, hesitant to invade Wamba’s privacy uninvited, but another cry bled through the narrow gap below the door, this time a low, pained moan. Swallowing hard, Oscar pushed open the door.

There was more light in the bedroom, radiating out from the dying flames in the grate to illuminate the great bed. Oscar glanced warily around, but the room was empty but for the man buried beneath the blankets, who gasped and twisted in the throes of an obvious nightmare. As Oscar cautiously approached, unsure whether to wake Wamba or leave him to the dream, he turned to his side and drew his knees up tight to his chest, choking out a word.

“Master.”

Oscar gaped.

“Please, master.” Wamba’s voice was desolate, his sorrowful plea tearing at Oscar’s heart. Another small cry, and Oscar could bear it no longer. He reached out and grasped Wamba’s arm, shaking him clumsily and calling his name.

Wamba’s eyes flew open immediately. He flailed back from Oscar, though tangled as he was in the blankets and furs, he did not make it far. He blinked at Oscar from across the bed, panting and looking thoroughly disheveled with his mussed hair and his nightshirt twisted around his torso.

“Oscar? What’s the matter? Are you alright?” Wamba rasped, obviously trying to calm his breathing.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Oscar forced out through the stunned silence attempting to strangle his voice. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh,” Wamba sighed, his body slumping. “Is that all? I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t,” Oscar reassured him automatically, then reconsidered. “Actually, you might have. I don’t really know.”

Wamba smiled weakly. “Well, thank you for waking me. I am well now, if you would like to return to your bed.” He was still a little wild-eyed, but he managed to slide back across the bed and untangle the blankets a bit.

Instead of turning to go, Oscar perched on the edge of the bed and just looked at Wamba, not sure what to say.

“What is it?” Wamba pulled one of the blankets up and around his shoulders, shivering a little in the chill night air.

Oscar could not seem to make his lips form the question. So he continued to stare in silence.

“Oscar? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“You said master,” Oscar blurted at last. “Twice. In your sleep.”

Wamba closed his eyes. “Ah.”

Oscar waited, but nothing more was forthcoming, so he plowed ahead. “What does that mean? Why that word?” He reached out impulsively to pull the blankets up around Wamba’s shoulders, tugging them snugly closed beneath his chin, rearranging them to his satisfaction while he waited for an explanation.

“I daresay I was dreaming of past days,” Wamba said at last, his gaze dropping.

The subtly revealed truth was so inconceivable that it took Oscar’s mind a long stupefied moment to put it into words. “You mean,” he ventured at last, “you were a slave?”

Wamba nodded, very slowly, and met Oscar’s gaze. “Yes, I was a slave. Lawfully, I am one still. Cedric the Saxon was my master. I had a place in his castle for ten years, and a place in his bed for half of that. When he died, my collar passed with his lands and other property to his son, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and he has never formally freed me.”

Oscar stared agape. “But,” his mind grasped for a thought from the swarm of confusion in his head, “everyone here believes that Cedric was your father.”

“That is what they have been told,” Wamba nodded, a distant look in his eyes. “It is a fiction created by the king, with Wilfred’s cooperation.”

“Why would he do that?” Oscar exclaimed, desperate to regain the surety that had been shattered by this sudden revelation.

“When my master died, the king invited me here, to fulfill a role to which he felt I was suited.” Wamba’s lips twitched in a feeble attempt at a smile. “I’m still not certain if it was a favor to Wilfred, to save me from my doldrums.”

Something rankled at Oscar. “Ten years? What about the time before that?”

“Before Cedric I had another master.” Wamba shuddered. “He is dead now.”

“I suppose you’re not going to tell me about that.”

“No,” Wamba agreed. “Not tonight, at least.”

“Why tell me any of this at all?” Oscar wondered. It seemed to him this information could be very easily used to discredit Wamba and destroy the life he had here.

“It was only a matter of time before you discovered my secret, living in such close quarters.” Wamba gave him a rueful smile. “Though I must say I did not anticipate quite such a dramatic revelation as this.”

Oscar just nodded, and Wamba gave him time to assimilate his new knowledge into his understanding of the man before him. Wamba leaned back against the headboard, dark shadows around his eyes testament to the weariness that never seemed to leave him entirely. He hid it well, particularly at court, though Oscar had grown more astute at noticing the cracks in his masks. Now, he made no pretense. Oscar felt remarkably foolish, suddenly, for never imagining Wamba might not be noble. Much of the behavior that was so odd for a noble made much more sense viewed through this new lens.

“You’re tired,” Oscar said at last. “You should try to sleep.”

“As should you.”

Oscar stood and pointed his feet at the door, then quickly turned back. “You’ll be alright?”

Wamba peered at him from where he huddled unmoved at the head of the bed. “I’ll be fine, Oscar.”

“If you’re certain.” Oscar was not sure what he was offering, exactly. He only knew that his urge to protect Wamba, to take care of him, was growing stronger by the day and it felt wrong to leave him now, when he was obviously hurt and vulnerable.

“I’m certain, Oscar. Thank you.” It was a gentle but clear dismissal.

Oscar turned back just once more, as he closed the door. Wamba was still unmoved, staring into the middle distance. Oscar spent the rest of the night ruminating on what he had learned, his thoughts chasing one another in endless circles about his head. When the first feeble fingers of dawn began to creep into the room, he had not slept even a moment. Something made him doubt Wamba had either.

Finally, he gave up the pretense of sleep and rose from his bed. He dressed, and pulled on his boots, and ventured out into the castle toward the kitchen. As he made his way through the corridors and the now familiar slow waking of the castle, waving at a yawning Margaret on her way to the laundry, he came to a decision. Ultimately, Wamba was the same man. Oscar was still his charge, and he would go on doing as he had done for weeks now. Wamba behaved as if he had never had someone to take care of him because he never had. Now he had Oscar, and Oscar would make sure he understood it.


	17. Chapter 17

Wilfred was not sure what to think when he first learned of Oscar.

The missive from the king arrived at Rotherwood as February was drawing to a close, in the hands of a harried messenger on a winded horse. The directive therein was straightforward enough. There was a disturbance along the border and Wilfred was commanded to return to London to meet with the king before riding north to discover the culprits and see them quelled.

Then, at the very bottom of the scroll, he found a brief note, in the king’s own hand.

_Incidentally, it might amuse to learn that Wamba has rescued a young thief who found his way into my counting room. He has kept him as a helper of sorts, and has done an admirable job of domesticating the little knave. They are hardly to be seen apart, even at court. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the lad._

The curiosity that bloomed from the intriguing words seized Wilfred’s imagination, and refused to release him even as he made hasty preparation for his departure. The following morning, he kissed his wife and infant son goodbye and rode out with one bowman and one squire into the snowy wood for London. The treacherous paths slowed their progress considerably, forcing them to keep to a crawl and take shelter early to avoid the worst of the cold nights and the late season storms. By the time London came into view, a week had passed, and Wilfred had spent much more time than was entirely reasonable wondering what manner of person this little thief of Wamba’s might be. He had half convinced himself that the boy must have manipulated Wamba somehow, played on his sympathies to escape his punishment. If he was a thief, he was bound to be a liar as well, and Wilfred was more than prepared to see him removed if he posed any danger to Wamba’s wellbeing.

He rode into the tower courtyard with a grim certainty of what must be done, as dusk fell on the seventh day of his journey. Then he laid eyes on the boy, standing just behind Wamba and Farren, and meeting Wilfred’s assessing gaze squarely with a stubborn set to his jaw and defiant fire in his eyes, as if daring the knight to do his worst. Wilfred found himself grudgingly impressed, marveling as the steely boy quickly softened and blushed under Wamba’s gentle teasing. There was clearly something here that he had not anticipated.

He did not have a chance to speak with Wamba privately until much later that night. Once he had changed out of his freezing mail and soaked surcoat, he made his way to the great hall and spent an hour with the king at his table, discussing the latest news from the north and doing his best to maintain proper decorum while filling his growling belly as quickly as possible. Wamba was there as well, speaking with Lord Geoffrey and nursing a goblet of watered wine at one of the lower tables. There was no sign of Oscar.

Wilfred excused himself at last, after a comprehensive briefing, and rose from the table to make his way back to his rooms. He caught Wamba’s eye as he stood, watching as he made his excuses as well, falling into step easily beside Wilfred. They did not speak until they reached Wilfred’s rooms, stepping from the frosty corridor into the welcoming warmth provided by the roaring fire in the grate.

“How are you, Wamba?” He wasted no time addressing the most pressing question weighing on his mind. He waved Wamba into one of the chairs before the fire, falling heavily into the other and stretching his cold feet toward the flames.

“As well as can be expected, Wilfred,” Wamba answered with a small smile, even as he ignored the offered seat and instead dropped to the flagstones to help Wilfred remove his stiff boots.

“That’s really not necessary, you know,” Wilfred murmured, watching the top of Wamba’s golden head as he nodded, though he was clearly undeterred.

“I know. But you’ll be more comfortable this way. I’m sure your journey was tiring.”

“Hm,” Wilfred hummed as he stretched his toes and sighed with relief. Wamba’s eyes sparkled with mirth. He placed the boots off to the side and stood.

“Can I bring you anything else? Some wine?”

“No, no,” Wilfred murmured, the heat of the fire relaxing his tired muscles and making his spine collapse into a lazy curve. Then his eyes flew open at a sudden jolt of memory.

“Actually,” he said, “you can bring me my pack.”

Wamba found the weathered leather bag quickly among the small pile of belongings stacked beside the stand that held Wilfred’s armor. He carried it over and placed it in Wilfred’s hands.

“Sit, will you,” Wilfred waved an exasperated hand at the empty chair. Wamba finally obeyed, then watched without comment as Wilfred rooted in the pack for what he needed. He pulled free a small cloth-wrapped bundle a moment later and held it out to Wamba, who accepted it reluctantly.

“Nora asked me to bring you this. A good portion of what remains of last year’s honey.”

Wamba carefully unwrapped the bundle to reveal a small, stoppered jar. He turned it over in his hands, with a look of pure bemusement. “You have told her that there is honey to be had in the king’s castle?”

“She refuses to tolerate my protests,” Wilfred said with a diffident wave. “Something about the taste of home being different.”

“I can’t say she’s wrong,” Wamba confided, very softly. “I do miss it.”

Wilfred watched his thin fingers caress the rough sides of the earthenware jar lightly. His heart ached a little, to think of Wamba alone here, so far from everyone who knew him for himself, who cared for him. “You know you are always welcome at Rotherwood, Wamba. It remains your home.”

“It is hard to think of returning,” Wamba whispered. He still had not raised his head.

“I understand,” Wilfred said soothingly, and he meant it. Wamba had hardly remained at Rotherwood for a season after Cedric’s death. During those months, he walked the halls like a ghost, carrying out his duties without any sign of the spark that had always fueled his mischievous ways. In a way, the king’s invitation for Wamba to join the royal court had been a relief for Wilfred, and while the distance was clearly trying, in the year since he came to London, Wamba had found new purpose and an unlikely place among the nobility.

Attempting to distract them both with a lighter subject, he offered more news. “Gurth wanted you to know that Fangs sired an impressive litter of pups last year. They’ve just been weaned. I only barely prevented him stuffing one of them in my pack to bring to you.”

Wamba laughed at that, meeting Wilfred’s eyes at last with a crooked smile. “I must say, Wilfred, I’m rather heartbroken. With so many treacherous nobles about, it would be a relief to have a more honest and steadfast companion to whom I could confide my secrets.”

“Would Oscar not be jealous?”

“He’s hardly a harmless pup,” Wamba rejoined lightly, after a moment. “Judging by the litany I received from the castle guards, he has quite a set of fangs.”

“He’s certainly an interesting lad.”

“Interesting is one word for it, yes,” Wamba chuckled. “I suppose you want to know how that came about.”

“I know how it came about,” Wilfred said. “I’m less certain as to why.”

Wamba stared into the fire for a moment, considering. “I don’t know what possessed me, really. I had spoken before I realized it. It was just so unbearable to see him there, forced to his knees, and the whole court laughing at him. He was so defiant, so brave and so very foolish.” Wamba tossed a rueful little smile toward Wilfred. “I was never that brave. I suppose I admired it, and did not wish to see such a fiery spirit extinguished so young.”

“You have never been the best judge of your own virtues, Wamba,” Wilfred reminded him gently. “I hold you as one of the bravest men I have known.”

“Perhaps. But never so bold, I think, as when I am hiding behind a mask," he sighed, betraying his weariness in the slump of his shoulders. "Oscar’s honesty is refreshing.”

“So you kept him?”

Wamba shook his head. “It was not my intention. That was the king’s doing. His condition for sparing Oscar a more severe punishment was that he remain in service for a year, specifically in my service. It was my fault, really. I convinced the king to have mercy upon him by proposing a wager that I could reform him.”

Wilfred could not stop his guffaw. “How very like you!”

“I had no idea whether I could actually do it. It was just the most promising ploy I could think of at the time.”

“Well, you certainly seem to be managing it, judging from what I’ve seen so far.”

Wamba nodded consideringly, eyes still on the fire. “He has adapted well to life in the castle. It is my hope that I will be able to impart some useful skills by the time he leaves here.”

“Manners?” Wilfred ventured hopefully.

Wamba huffed a quiet laugh, smiling at Wilfred again. “Perhaps. I’m not sure they’ll take as well as the letters have.”

“You’re teaching him to read,” Wilfred realized.

“Yes,” Wamba said. “I managed to learn in a year. I’m confident he can do the same, or better.”

“Well, don't forget you did have quite an exceptional teacher,” Wilfred blustered, puffing out his chest a bit.

“Of course, Wilfred. You were very patient with me.” The fondness in Wamba’s gaze was all for Wilfred this time.

“Hard to believe it’s been ten years since then. It feels like yesterday,” he sighed, slouching a little lower in his hard chair.

“Such an old man you are, Wilfred,” Wamba chided teasingly.

“I should know better than to share confidences with you by now.”

Wamba conceded the point. The conversation turned again to Rotherwood, and all that Wamba had missed in his year away. It was comforting to hear Wamba’s account, and Wilfred’s fears over Oscar’s intentions were effectively laid to rest. In their place, a much more intriguing prospect arose. It seemed that Wamba harbored a growing fondness for his young charge, and if Oscar returned that affection, he might prove to be a true companion for Wamba.

This hope redoubled when he went to fetch Wamba early the next morning and found him carefully penning a note that looked like a verse. He inquired as to its purpose, and received a quite unexpected answer.

“It’s for Oscar.”

“Are you writing him poetry?” he whispered, quite unable to convey the fathomless depth of his incredulity.

Wamba laughed softly. “Hardly. It’s an old song I used to sing. He’s stubborn. He won’t want to leave a puzzle unsolved. This way I know he won’t neglect his writing.”

He blew on the ink to dry it and propped the note between a mug and plate on a small tray at his bedside. Ivanhoe waited while he went to deposit the tray with its little mystery verse in the dark library. They spent the rest of the day in conference with the king and a handful of his advisors, hashing out the situation at the border and devising a plan to deploy forces to meet the Scots who had grown either bold enough or desperate enough, late into the winter, to send warriors across the frontier and raid stores on English land.

The next time he saw Oscar, he was careful to watch how he treated Wamba in their interaction. Despite his presence, Oscar remained focused on Wamba, earnest and attentive. It was clear that however he had come into his role, he was committed to it now, and it seemed to Wilfred that he may have accomplished an even more remarkable feat, that of keeping Wamba from disappearing under the guise of Cedric.

Farren’s assessment, when Wilfred finally asked it of him, was more straightforward. “He laughs now. He did not laugh for the longest time.”

So the weeks passed. Preparations were made.

Wilfred set out from London with a force of thirty men just as the earth began to thaw and the first tenacious shoots of spring to push through the patchy dregs of the melting snow. Wamba was there to see him off, Oscar hovering at his back as always, as ever his obstinate shadow.

“Be well, my lord,” Wamba said, one hand clasped between Wilfred’s own.

“I shall do my best,” Wilfred promised. He tilted his head to peer over Wamba’s shoulder at Oscar, who was glowering darkly at Wilfred. His protectiveness had become more evident over the weeks, and Wilfred could honestly find no fault with it.

He smiled at the boy. “Take care of him for me, Oscar.”

“I don’t need you to tell me,” Oscar scoffed, glaring at Wilfred’s knees.

Wamba looked appalled, but Wilfred halted the impending reprimand with a quelling hand on his shoulder and a laugh.

“Good. Very good.”

He took his helmet from the waiting squire and swung up onto his horse. He gave Wamba one last wave as he rode to his place at the head of the soldiers and knights.

For the first time since he had brought Wamba to London, he left without the gnawing worry that he was abandoning him to loneliness. Instead, he relaxed in the confidence that everything was going to be fine.


	18. Chapter 18

Two days after Ivanhoe's departure, Oscar walked up to Wamba’s desk and recited from memory:

 _When the nightingale sings_  
_The woods grow green,_  
_Leaf and grass and blossom spring_  
_In April, I believe._  
_And love is to my heart gone_  
_With a spear so keen,_  
_Night and day my blood it drinks_  
_My heart causes me pain._

Wamba listened quietly, a hint of a delighted smile playing at the corners of his eyes and mouth, until Oscar finished the last line.

"Well done, Oscar." His voice throbbed with warmth, and an answering pleasure instantly suffused Oscar's being. His time struggling to decipher Wamba's little notes had been an act of pure frustration, but the soft gaze fixed on him now was more than recompense enough for his pains. He grinned widely.

"It's a song," he said.

"A very old one, yes."

"How did you learn it?"

"A friend taught me," Wamba said, his gaze turning distant for a moment before he visibly centered himself on Oscar once again. "You were quite quick to put the pieces together. I should say such an accomplishment deserves a reward. What would you have?"

Wamba reached for his quill, looking at Oscar expectantly.

"Actually," Oscar said, growing hesitant, “I was wondering if I might be allowed to visit my family.”

Wamba blinked at him, his ragged quill hovering in the air. “Your family?”

“Yes. My brother.” The thought had been gnawing at him for weeks, ever since Ivanhoe’s visit. The knight was not Wamba’s brother, in reality, but he was family in a way, and seeing the two of them together had brought to mind his own brother. Since his capture, Oscar had not had any means of letting Emmett know where he was, or that he was even alive. He felt confident enough now to ask Wamba for that.

“Oscar, I had no idea you had any family.” Wamba dropped his quill, rubbing his a hand over his face and smearing a bit of ink across his cheek. He looked shocked, and not a little distressed.

“Just my brother, really. And his wife.” Oscar clarified. “They probably wondered what happened to me. I just want to let them know I’m alive and well.”

“Of course,” Wamba said at once. “Of course you should go.”

Oscar smiled. “Actually, I’m not sure they’ll believe me when I tell them what happened.”

“Yes, I suppose it is rather unlikely,” Wamba mused.

“That’s why I was hoping you would come with me.”

So it was he found himself leaving the tower for the first time in nearly a full season, with Wamba beside him and the captain of the guard hovering protectively at their backs. Farren had appeared as they approached the gate, and simply nodded when Wamba described their mission, falling into step without comment. It was a fairly easy walk to the humble district where Oscar had spent his youth, and he quickly found the streets growing familiar. The scents and sounds of the city, even the hints of the less than savory, felt like a welcoming embrace from the city after so long closed up in the castle. Then he turned a corner, and he was home.

The modest house that served as both cooper’s workshop and residence for their small family was tucked between two taller tenements, facing a cramped, muddy yard that was dotted with a few frosty puddles of melting snow. The shutters on the single window were closed tightly against the lingering chill in the air.

Oscar stopped halfway across the yard and turned to Wamba. “I think I should talk to them first. Explain who you are.”

“Of course,” Wamba said gently. “Take your time. I will be here when you are ready.”

He made his way to weathered wooden bench that leaned against one of the tenements, and settled himself there in a beam of warm sunlight, preparing to wait. Farren followed him and took up a post nearby, silent as ever. Left to cross the remaining distance alone, Oscar was taken by an uncomfortable sense of trepidation. He had never strayed so long. It was impossible to predict what sort of reception he would receive after such a lengthy absence.

With one last look at Wamba, who appeared to be making friends with a small slate-colored cat that had approached to curl around his ankles, Oscar pushed open the splintered wooden door. The sight that greeted him was so wonderfully familiar it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Mary stood with her back to him, stirring the scarred old cooking pot over the fire. The small room had changed little since he had last stood here. Though his brother was nowhere to be seen, Emmett's tools and materials lay neatly beside a half-completed cask, and Mary’s spinning instruments in the corner beyond. Three colorful mugs sat on the mantelpiece, his own burnt orange vessel standing beside his brother’s dark brown.

Mary turned at the sudden wash of daylight, her large eyes narrowed against the brightness. He just managed to close the door before she made him out and screamed. Oscar winced, as at once there was a thumping and racket from the garret room above, and in a moment his brother was pounding down the stairs. He caught sight of Oscar, and stopped still two paces away. The baker's wife had always said they could have been twins but for the decade that separated them. Oscar looked up into blue eyes that were identical to his own, shining with shock and rage and joy and disbelief.

All of this he noted in a moment, and then Emmett had him by the neck, squeezing the breath from him and roaring in his ear. “Oscar! You absolute wretch! We thought you were dead, you miserable idiot!” His brother was shaking and patting at him all over. “Are you hurt?”

Sucking a gasped breath, Oscar croaked, “No.”

The embrace shifted into a tight hold, and Emmett was dragging him toward his worktable, while Mary danced quickly out of the way with a squeak. “Good. Then I'm going to skin the hide off you, for what you put us through.” At the sudden, unanticipated prospect of a thrashing, Oscar fought free at last. He dodged his brother when the elder came after him, and raised his hands.

“Please! Just listen to me! Listen first!” Emmett crossed his arms and glared hard. Finally, he nodded. Once.

Relieved, though not completely convinced of this temporary reprieve, Oscar gave his brother a wide berth, sidling toward the dubious protection offered by Mary. His brother’s wife was smaller than he remembered, but of course it must be he who had grown. She hugged him tightly, with tears in her eyes, and for the first time he understood how much his prolonged absence had caused them to worry, and why his brother was so angry. A hard lump of regret formed in his throat, and he wondered if it might ease if he let Emmett thrash him after all.

His brother took a seat at the main table, and gestured that Oscar should do the same. “Well? Where have you been?”

“In the tower.” Mary stopped still, his mug in her hand filled with spiced cider from the keg beside the small store of firewood.

“In the tower?” Emmett repeated the words, voice dripping with disbelief.

Oscar took a deep drink. “I snuck into the castle counting room the night I left. One of king’s guards found me there. They took me to the hall and the king. He thought I was a thief.”

“You were.” Emmett growled.

“So he decided to have my hands cut off.”

Mary gasped. Oscar held up his hands and turned them for her inspection.

“As you can see, they are still perfectly attached. I was about to tell you that someone in the hall spoke for me, and convinced the king to spare my hands in exchange for one year of labor. Since then, I have been serving out my sentence working for the man who spoke for me.” He drained his mug and held it out hopefully for more.

“A stranger challenged the king? For you?” Emmett’s brows lifted in dangerous incredulity, and Oscar squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how unlikely his tale really was.

“I didn’t believe it either, at first, but now I think he was not putting himself in any danger by it.”

“And what does he make you do, in exchange for this mercy?”

Cheeks reddening, Oscar scowled at his brother’s implication. “Nothing. He teaches me things.”

“What kind of things?” Mary asked, placing his refilled mug at his elbow.

“To read, and a little about sums.”

“Surely no such man exists,” scoffed Emmett. “He is a myth, Oscar. Tell me truth, and it will be better for you.”

“It is the truth!” he insisted, growing frustrated.

“Then tell me his name!” Emmett faced him down, and when Oscar hesitated, pointed an accusing finger. “Ha! You can’t!”

The reason for the pause, however, was not one that the elder could have easily guessed. Oscar was not sure which name to use. He had not thought to ask Wamba whether he should conceal the truth from his family. It was hard to think of the man by his public name, knowing what he did, but Wamba had shown him incredible kindness in letting him come here, even escorting Oscar himself. The least he could do for Wamba was to maintain his discretion. So finally, hesitantly, he offered, “His name is Cedric.”

“Cedric!” The word was an exclamation from Emmett’s mouth. “Cedric the Fool?”

Oscar looked up sharply. “You know him?”

“Of course. Everyone in London knows of him.”

Baffled, he looked from Emmett to Mary. She gave him a sympathetic smile, seeing that he was doomed. “Cedric is the magistrate of the public tribunal, Oscar. Surely you know that.”

“What? No! He never told me.”

“Enough.” Emmett stood again, reached for him. Oscar leapt from his chair and danced back.

“I swear I didn’t know, but I’m not lying. He’s here. He brought me here!” It was not how he had planned to introduce them to Wamba, but desperation made him spill his surprise early.

“What?” Mary and Emmett stared at him wide-eyed across the room.

A deep breath did little to calm his racing heart. So he took another. “Cedric brought me here. He’s waiting outside.”

“Saints preserve us!” cried Mary, looking suddenly faint.

Emmett, too, was shaken. “Oscar, are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“You brought the magistrate here?”

“He brought me.”

“And you let him sit outside all this time?” Emmett’s voice was rising, and for a panicked moment Oscar thought that even Wamba’s presence would not save him from his brother’s wrath.

Then Mary let out a little shriek and began to frantically put the room to order with shaking hands. Throwing off his stupor, Emmett strode determinedly across the rough floor and stepped out the door, and then went utterly still. His brother’s strange reaction made Oscar suddenly nervous. He followed slowly, a sudden dread in his stomach at what he would find, if it was possible Wamba had left him there. Anxiously, he poked his head around the doorframe, and found his breath stolen away.

A whole new emotion swelled in Oscar’s breast, thoroughly eclipsing his fear. Wamba was a pale vision, heartbreaking in the evening light, his face tilted up to catch the last lengthening rays of sun. The cat had found its way onto his lap, a small gray streak against his wheat-hued robe. It wore an identical expression of peace, luxuriating under a gentle hand.

The brothers held their breath, both captive to the scene. Wamba must have felt the force of their combined gaze, for he opened his eyes and rose, depositing the cat with care on the bench. It called after him, begging him to return, but he gave it an apologetic little smile, and went to where Oscar and Emmett stood.

He offered the elder a smooth, deep bow. “Please accept my profound apologies for the extended detainment of your brother.”

“N… no!” Emmett scrambled to return the courtesy, wide-eyed. “My lord, I do not know what my brother did to deserve your kind patronage, but my family is forever in your debt. Anything we have is yours.”

Oscar’s glee at his brother’s consternation made him grin so hard he thought his face would split. Wamba sent him a look of gentle rebuke, and he fought to bring his expression under control.

“Please call me Cedric. I am here under no mantle of authority. Oscar was kind enough to invite me, and if it is indebtedness of which we would speak, then I must offer my own words of gratitude. Your brother is quite tireless in looking after me.”

This elegantly phrased compliment, combined with Wamba’s insistence on informality, did little to ease Emmett’s agitation at the sudden appearance of the king’s own magistrate at his home. It was only when Oscar elbowed him hard in the ribs that he gathered himself to invite his guest inside.

“Our home is humble, but we can offer you refreshment. I am Emmett, and this is my wife, Mary.” The woman bobbed a curtsy, staring at him in open awe.

Wamba took the chair Emmett offered, and Oscar slid into the seat adjacent. He hid his face in his mug to hide his smirk. Mary had produced a carved wooden cup from her small cupboard, filled it with cider and offered it to Wamba with a whispered apology for its simple contents.

“Thank you.” He accepted it with a smile and put it to his mouth. He made a small noise of pleased surprise, discovering the cider. Mary no doubt thought he was being polite, but Oscar could see Wamba’s genuine delight at the crisp, clear drink.

Mary did not move away. She peered into Wamba’s face until he gave her a curious look. Very softly, she asked, “You're Cedric, truly? The magistrate?”

The sudden candor won her one horrified stare, from her husband, and an amused smile. “Only in the mornings, and never on Sundays.”

Suddenly reminded of his earlier annoyance, Oscar treated Wamba to a cross scowl. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you were a magistrate?”

“Why didn’t you ask?” Wamba threw back, with lifted brows. Oscar sputtered.

Emmett muffled a laugh into his hand. He was looking more at ease now, helped by the comfortable interaction between his brother and his guest, and emboldened.

“They say you’re the best.”

“The best?” echoed Oscar. “The best what?”

“The best of the judges we’ve had in the lower tribunal recent years. Marcus, the baker’s son, was taken in for destroying a fruit cart half a year back.”

“The boy who worked as a porter for the blacksmith?” Wamba leaned forward on his elbows, intent.

“The same,” Emmett replied, with a surprised smile.

Wamba crossed his arms on the table. “I remember the incident. If I’m not mistaken, Marcus did not actually touch the cart. He tripped and dropped his delivery, which by unhappy chance struck the forelegs of a rather high-strung young horse belonging to a rather high-strung young knight. The first reared and unseated the latter, who with equal providence landed on the cart and its contents. The boy was quite ready to take the blame for all the damages, but the haste that led to the accident was not mere recklessness.”

“What was it?” asked Oscar in a rapt, impatient whisper.

“It seems that his employer was in the habit of taking a penalty from Marcus’ earnings for any delay in his deliveries. He also beat the lad quite viciously for every offense.”

Emmett added a solemn nod. “Marcus told no one, until that day. He’s a good boy, but he has precious little luck and even less sense. His father thought for certain he would be spending a few days in the stocks. It was quite a shock to find Fuller there that morning instead.”

Oscar laughed, delighted. “You put that old bully in the stocks?”

“It is always imprudent to batter one’s help.” Wamba glanced at him sidelong.

“As though you know anything about dealing with help,” he chortled. “You can’t even get the kitchen girls to feed you properly.”

“It’s a matter of choosing battles that can be won, Oscar.”

“Sir,” interjected Mary, “whatever Oscar might think of your ability to intimidate kitchen wenches, let me assure you that your name is much respected outside the castle walls. Tales of your discernment are told everywhere.” The awestruck mist had not quite faded from the little woman completely, but she spoke with dignified composure, and a slight flush at her own boldness. The blush deepened considerably at Wamba’s grateful smile.

“I hope I can be worthy of such high praise, madam.” There was no mockery in his words. He was beautifully sincere. Oscar understood suddenly Mary’s shy flush, and felt a similar heat rise in his own cheeks.

Annoyed with himself, he snapped, “If you’re so adored, then why do they call you a fool?” Oscar was aware of the challenging note in his voice, and an unpleasant tightness in his guts. He was unreasoningly jealous, suddenly, that so many people were so fond of Wamba.

“I’m not certain how that particular title was born. It is my personal suspicion that the king devised it for his own amusement, but I believe, Oscar, that generally it has to do with questions.”

“Questions?”

“Yes. I ask quite a lot of them, and the common wisdom seems to be that only a person exceptionally weak in the head would need so many.”

“But you’re not a fool!”

“I am very relieved to hear it.”

Oscar was not amused. “Why don’t you just ask fewer questions, then?”

With a long, assessing look, Wamba asked, “What do you think?”

Emmett and Mary watched this exchange in stunned silence. It was not until he saw their expressions that Oscar realized he and Wamba had slipped into their own private conversation. It warmed him to know that they had this, a rhythm that was theirs alone. It was not Wamba whom the people loved, but Cedric, and knowing Wamba, having this closeness with him, was Oscar’s privilege alone. Now Wamba had thrown him a challenge, and he was suddenly very eager to answer well.

Considering what he knew and what he had just learned, he looked at Wamba, who waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts, and found his answer. “Because if you did not ask so many questions,” he said slowly, forming the idea even as he put it into words, “you would not know all the sides of a situation, and therefore could not make a fair judgment.”

A pleased smile appeared at once on Wamba’s face. “That is what I think as well.”

In the end, they stayed through a simple supper of turnip and cabbage stew, for which Mary once again offered apologies that Wamba dismissed. Farren was invited in to share the meal, and remained after, watching silently as Wamba shared humorous stories of the court and Emmett returned the favor with tales of Oscar’s mischievous childhood that made Wamba laugh delightedly as Oscar scoffed and blustered to cover his embarrassment.

It was well into the night when they left to make their way back. The city was quiet. Wamba and Oscar walked the empty streets in silence with Farren once again at their back, letting scattered lanterns guide their steps toward the castle looming dark against the star-speckled night sky.

“You were wonderful.” Oscar was grateful for the darkness that hid his burning blush. Unfortunately, that same blessed cover left him unable to see Wamba’s expression.

He jumped at the sensation of a hand sliding gently against the back of his neck, fond and reassuring. Wamba had made no move to touch him in Emmett’s house, for fear, perhaps, of appearing improper or proprietary. This brief caress, quickly gone, was Wamba’s reply.

They turned a corner, and passed beneath a lantern hanging over a tavern door. In the dim light, Oscar looked over at the man walking beside him, and realized with clarity as sudden as the golden illumination that he was painfully in love with Wamba.

The discovery was devastating. Yet even as he reeled, Oscar saw that it had been inevitable. From the moment he had looked up into dark eyes while the court jeered he had been lost. Every day since that first had been a step toward this fate. Wamba, bold and reserved, lord and slave, an adored champion and a man broken, had with his kindness and his patience and his vulnerability changed Oscar’s resentment to admiration, admiration to affection, and affection, at last, to love.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters in italics occur outside the main storyline and usually depict past events.

_Wamba arrived in London on a wet morning in early April. He was soaked to the skin in a drooping cloak, leading a horse and shadowed by an equally sodden Farren. Richard observed their sluggish approach through the rain-streaked window of his private study, and after a moment of consideration dispatched a page to direct them to their new quarters, with orders to Wamba to come speak with him once he was settled._

_The arrangements had been easy enough. The erstwhile jester had impressed the king on several occasions with his sharp mind, manifested in the astuteness of his observations and the soundness of the advice he offered to his betters. He had further proven himself capable of a remarkable bravery in the face of adversity that rivaled Richard’s most valiant knights. Though the boy’s loyalty to Cedric tied him to Rotherwood while the Saxon lived, there was nothing that remained to prevent him taking a new post after his master’s passing. Richard was never one to waste a valuable asset._

_Wilfred agreed to his proposal after remarkably little discussion, both of them of the opinion that a change of scenery might free Wamba from the shades of Cedric that haunted him while he remained at Rotherwood. Wamba himself acquiesced without complaint, trusting Wilfred’s judgment on the matter. The only protest came from the soldier Farren who, upon hearing of Wamba’s departure, petitioned Wilfred for permission to accompany the young man. Richard immediately offered him a place in the castle garrison and a home for his wife and two young sons._

_Now, two weeks later, all was arranged and Richard was ready to reveal to Wamba the purpose he had in mind for him. He settled at his desk and turned his attention to his correspondence while he waited for Wamba to make his appearance. Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed when a tentative knock sounded at his door._

_“Enter,” he called, setting his pen aside._

_The door opened just enough to allow Wamba to slip through. He was out of the cloak, and dressed in a simple blue tunic and gray leggings, both thankfully dry, though his hair and leather shoes were visibly damp. The overall effect made him appear nothing more than a simple country serf, and Richard noted that his wardrobe would need to be addressed at the earliest opportunity._

_“Wamba,” he greeted the young slave with a smile._

_“Your majesty,” Wamba returned, offering a deep bow. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of going to his knee or offering some further obeisance, but stilled himself after an awkward pause._

_“I trust it was not my message that caused you to hasten to me here without even locating your dry boots,” Richard said lightly, hoping to put Wamba at ease with a gentle gibe. He was amazed to see Wamba instead stiffen further, a flush rising in his pale cheeks._

_“I’ve only the one pair, your majesty,” the young man confessed softly._

_Richard met that with a raised eyebrow. “I see. Well, that will need to be seen to shortly.”_

_Wamba opened his mouth as if he might protest, but subsided with a simple, “Yes, sire.”_

_Richard rose and circled the desk to stand before Wamba. “How do you find your chambers?”_

_The question was no mere pleasantry. Richard had been explicit in his instructions. The chambers assigned to Wamba were the same that Cedric, with the boy at his side, had occupied on his last visit to London. Wamba rewarded him with a meager smile before he dropped his gaze again. “I remember them well, sire.”_

_“I trust you will be comfortable.”_

_“Thank you, sire,” Wamba nodded. Once again, his brows creased and he looked as if he would say more, but marshaled his tongue to silence instead._

_Richard grew weary of his reticence. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms across his chest. “What is it? You’ve never had a problem speaking your mind to me in the past. I would have your honesty. Speak.”_

_Wamba flushed, hunching his shoulders in instinctual defense against the king’s ire, and said quietly, “I only wondered when I should expect my new master, my lord.”_

_“Your new master?” Richard asked in disbelief._

_“I thought you meant to keep me, sire,” Wamba pressed on, “but if it is your will that I serve another lord, I will do as you command, of course.”_

_Richard laughed. He could not prevent it, though his levity caused Wamba to shrink further into himself, for he suddenly understood Wamba’s doubt and his unusual timidity._

_“Wamba, you misunderstand. You have not been sold, nor gifted, nor changed hands in any way. Wilfred remains your master. I have only asked him to lend you to me, as it were, for a specific purpose.”_

_“Oh,” Wamba gasped, looking up and meeting the king’s eyes at last. "Oh," he said again, and his face was flooded with such profound relief that Richard could not help but smile._

_“I’m sorry if you were frightened, Wamba," he offered sincerely. "Perhaps I was too enamored of my own scheming and should have been more forthcoming with you earlier. Those chambers are for your use alone now.”_

_“You are too generous, my lord," came the expected protest._

_“Nonsense. I have plans for you, and they won’t be helped by placing you in the servants’ quarters.”_

_“Yes, sire,” Wamba said, though his voice held a tremulous note of question. Richard decided the moment had come to reveal his purpose at last._

_“How old are you now, Wamba?”_

_“Twenty-one, sire.”_

_Richard hummed thoughtfully. “A little young, but it will do. You understand that my intention in bringing you here is to put you to work?”_

_“Yes, sire.”_

_“You are prepared to do whatever I ask of you?”_

_“Of course, sire,” Wamba nodded at once._

_Richard smiled. “Good. Then on Tuesday next you will sit as magistrate in the public tribunal.”_

_Wamba's eyes grew so wide so quickly that Richard feared they might fall from his head entirely. “What? Your majesty, I don’t understand.”_

_“No objections.” Richard silenced him with a wave. “I have thought long on this. I know your skill for seeing concealed truths and intentions, and I know also the reasons for your hesitation. For now, you will sit and hear the claims brought to the court by the people of London. You will report your thoughts to me, and sentencing will remain mine. For now.” He smiled. “You will soon learn what punishment is deserved for a certain crime, and that duty shall be yours as well.”_

_“Surely my age,” Wamba protested weakly._

_“Will not interfere with your sense of justice.” The king was gentle now, knowing he had won. “There is too much lawlessness in this land still, and few understand that as deeply as you do. Others would use my tribunal as an instrument for their cruelty. I have had to remove two recently, those who I had thought to be fair. I have need of you, and so do the people who come seeking the justice of the crown. Can you deny them?”_

_Pale and unhappy, Wamba nevertheless gave in to the force of the king's argument. “No, sire.”_

_Richard clapped him on the shoulder. “Splendid! It is decided, then. We will have you fitted for robes within the week.”_

_“If I may say one thing, your majesty?” Wamba ventured._

_“Certainly.”_

_“There are likely those here who know of me. I do not think they would stand and watch a slave and a clown take a seat of power without protest. I fear any term in the tribunal may be short-lived, if my tale becomes widely known.”_

_Richard considered this, knowing full well that Wamba could have said nothing, and hoped for just such an outcome. “That is an astute observation. We shall have to take measures to guard your identity, then. Or perhaps, we shall give you a new one.” He felt the light of sudden inspiration. “I seem to remember I was told that before you were Wamba, you were called Cedric.”_

_Surprised eyes met his. “Yes. That was the name given me by my mother.”_

_“Then you shall be Cedric here again.” The king spoke with a finality meant to quell any argument, squeezing the bony shoulder beneath his hand. “Those who may remember you will know something of your connection to Rotherwood. Let them think you her son.”_

_Wamba, visibly horrified by the thought, found voice again to protest. “Sire, I could not presume to make such a claim.”_

_The king interrupted him once more. “Nonsense. You are presuming nothing. I am making this decision on your behalf and the behalf of your master. Besides which, there is no member of Cedric’s family who would deny you claim to a place among them. It is no more than you deserve. Do not make me summon Wilfred to convince you of it.”_

_Tears stood in Wamba’s eyes, and he could not meet the king’s gaze, but he nodded his mute obedience._

_Richard shifted his hold to lay a reassuring hand on Wamba’s neck, knowing the turmoil he had stirred in the apprehensive young slave. “He did not begrudge you the name, Wamba. Neither would he deny you the title. Wear them proudly, in his honor.”_

_“Yes, sire.”_


	20. Chapter 20

The problem with being in love with Wamba was that Oscar had absolutely no idea what to do about it. After all his fevered imaginings, his vociferous protestations, his flight in reaction to the very implication that Wamba could want any form of physical companionship from him, he was hard pressed to see how he could turn around, scant weeks later, and declare himself not only willing but desirous of such attentions. On top of which, his relationship with Wamba had only just found a comfortable equilibrium, and he was near certain that any declaration on his part would put that precious balance in jeopardy. If Wamba noticed any symptom of his melancholy, he gave no indication of it. The nightly lessons continued, as did the occasional invitations to shadow the man at court. This left him pining helplessly, waiting for a moment when either a new solution presented itself or his heart ceded to reason and ceased to long for the impossible.

So Oscar turned his attention instead to the other great revelation that night had brought, of Wamba's position at court. As he grew more comfortable with reading, Oscar was finally able to discern that the vast majority of the endless writing that occupied Wamba's evenings was related to his duties as magistrate. The notes that summoned that endearing furrow between his brows held the details of the matters that came before him in the tribunal. The volumes that covered the walls, which Wamba consulted as he worked, were nearly all compendiums of the laws of the land. He quickly came to understand the weight of the responsibility given to Wamba by the king, and Wamba's utter determination to afford each dispute its fair consideration and deliver a just verdict. It was more than pure curiosity, therefore, that caused Oscar to ask Wamba one evening if he might shirk his chores for a morning and follow Wamba on his duties.

"You want to attend the tribunal?" Wamba regarded him with tired eyes as Oscar set a mug of warm spiced wine by his elbow.

Oscar leaned one hip against the hard edge of Wamba’s desk, fighting the urge to reach out and smooth the little crease at the corner of his mouth. "I've heard about you now, your reputation. I'd like to see for myself what it is that takes up so much of your day, what makes others admire you as I do.”

He knew he had succeeded when Wamba’s face softened, a faint smile emerging through the veil of weariness and warming Oscar from his toes to his burning cheeks. “Very well, Oscar. If that’s what you wish.” He slowly dipped his quill. “Though I assure you, it is unlikely to be as interesting as whatever you might be imagining. The vast majority of these disputes are perfectly mundane. I am frankly amazed at the sheer amount of chicken theft perpetrated in this city.”

Oscar snorted, and made no comment. The next morning he fetched Wamba’s breakfast, shared the milky porridge with him, and followed him out into the waking city. The guard captain Farren met them at the gates, and gave Oscar an appraising look that made him stand straighter and lift his chin in challenge. The big man said nothing, just turned to lead the way through the gates and into the city.

The tribunal itself was a simple, low-ceilinged hall situated just beyond the tower walls. Those wishing to put an accusation or a claim before the king's magistrate entered by the wide double doors and seated themselves along the sturdy wooden benches that filled the great room in straight rows. Liveried royal guards were positioned flanking the doors and along he walls at wide intervals. On the opposite side of the building from the main entrance sat a much smaller portal that faced the castle and led to a small antechamber. It was through this that Wamba entered, carrying two scrolls, with Farren at his back and Oscar at his side, peering curiously around the little room that that lay empty but for a simple desk and a barren hearth. He shivered a bit, watching Wamba straighten his collar and brush at his robes before be passed into the hall.

At the head of the hall, a table with an inkwell and a single chair waited upon a low dais. Wamba strode straight to it, without even a glance for the crowd in the hall. He seated himself, then spread one of his scrolls across the worn surface, placing the other to the side. Farren took up a post behind him, waving Oscar to take a seat in the hall. Most of the benches were already occupied, but he found a place near the middle of the room, next to a grey-haired woman in a plain brown shift and cap. She gave him a brief, curious glance but quickly turned back as Farren stepped forward to announce the tribunal open.

“The magistrate will pronounce judgment on open matters first, then new disputes may be brought,” the imposing man rumbled. “All who wish to make a claim before the tribunal may approach the bailiff and add a name to the list.” The bailiff was a heavyset man of middle years, who stood off to one side. He was quickly approached by a handful of people wishing to put claims forward.

At the same time, one of the guards pushed open a side door not far from where Oscar sat. Three men emerged, each shackled at the wrists. They were flanked by guards wielding pikes and shuffled despondently as they went. The short train came to a stop before Wamba’s table, where they turned to face him. Wamba sat with his back straight and a dispassionate expression on his face as he regarded the men before him. “I have considered your cases,” he said calmly, “and am prepared to issue a verdict for each.”

Oscar watched as all three men shifted nervously, and found himself itching to do the same. The air in the hall was tense with anticipation, and Wamba’s closed expression was unnerving to see on his usually expressive face.

“Peter Elyot,” said Wamba, and a haggard little man whose oily yellow hair hung in ribbons around a perfectly bald pate looked up. “You are accused of deliberately abducting two hens and a cockerel from your neighbor Moore’s property. The testimony offered in this tribunal has convinced me of your guilt. However, as this is the first occurrence of such behavior from you, and in light of the assurances of your character offered by others of your neighbors, your penalty will be to pay Moore three times the market price of the fowl. You will, in future, refrain from any further such acts lest you find yourself here again and subject to a much harsher punishment.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” stammered the ragged man, his shoulders dropping in relief.

“Thank your neighbors,” Wamba admonished him, “and think on the value of their good will that might be lost for the sake of a few miserable beasts.”

Elyot lowered his eyes humbly, waiting for Wamba to turn his attention to the next man, which he soon did.

“Thomas Goode,” came the next call, this to a swarthy youth cringing under the attention. “You are accused of imperiling the lives and livelihoods of the people of London by starting a fire in the tenement of your uncle that required a dozen men to tame. After hearing your account and the testament of witnesses, I am satisfied that the incident was the result of accidental inattention on your part, rather that deliberate malice. That said, a fire is a dire threat to the city itself and cannot be pardoned so easily." Oscar held his breath. "You will spend a morning in the stocks in the market square. I trust the experience will cure you of the worst of your carelessness.”

Goode whimpered a little, and Oscar let his lungs deflate in a gusty sigh. He noted a woman seated on the first bench muffle a sob into her hands. From the resemblance between them, she must be Goode’s mother, overcome at the lenience of the sentence. Arson was a capital crime, punishable by hanging. Wamba had spared the young man’s life. Oscar felt a sudden swelling of pride so intense it nearly stopped his breath.

The third and final man was treated now to Wamba’s impassive gaze. He was a broad-shouldered laborer wearing a threadbare tunic and a deep scowl. “Lewis Mason,” said Wamba, “you are accused of the reprehensible act of battering Isabel Cole for refusing your offer of marriage. It is clear to me that this was a deliberate and considered act of revenge upon a defenseless woman. I cannot fully express to you how very vile I find your behavior.” Despite his harsh words, Wamba’s face remained cool, his voice level. “You will be pilloried for a day, a night, and a day, or until your victim is moved to grant you mercy.”

“That little bitch got exactly what she deserved,” growled Mason, “and I’d give it to her again in a moment.”

“Your fate has just been placed in her hands, Mason,” Wamba reminded him. “I heartily recommend devoting yourself to winning her forgiveness, rather than offering yet more proof of your poor character.”

Wamba sat back in his chair, and Farren stepped forward before any more could be said. He commanded the guards to usher the three sentenced men from the hall with a curt gesture. Oscar, meanwhile, was trying very hard not to smile like a giddy fool. Wamba was magnificent like this, decisive and poised, but relentlessly fair, offering mercy where it was needed. In short order, he had thoroughly convinced Oscar that the praise Mary had heaped on him was fully deserved.

There was a quick shuffling of papers as Wamba traded his first scroll for his second, and reached for the quill resting in the inkwell. “Shall we hear the new matters?” he asked quietly. His voice had yet to rise above his normal conversational tone, but in the hall he could be heard clearly, as the audience hushed to attend his words.

The bailiff stepped forward, a scrap of parchment in hand. “There is one new prisoner, my lord, and three disputes.”

“The prisoner first, then,” Wamba decided. It was a few short moments before the side door opened once more and a spindly-limbed boy of no more than eleven or twelve was marched into the room, his jerkin slipping from his shoulders and his rough leather cap askew. He was jolted to a halt before the dais. Wamba made a few careful notations on his parchment before finally looking up at the boy before him. “What is your name, child?”

“Roland,” the boy muttered, sullen.

“And what have you done, Roland, that you stand here today?”

“Nothing. It wasn't me,” the unhappy youth scowled.

“He was caught picking pockets, my lord,” the bailiff interjected.

“A thief?” Wamba’s eyes met Oscar’s for a bare second, and though he was half sure he was imagining it, the spark of humor there warmed Oscar. He squirmed a bit on the bard bench. He could not help but be aware of how close he had come to being this boy, stood before Wamba awaiting judgment. He wondered what his sentence might have been.

The rest of the trial was fairly brief. It transpired that three of Roland’s victims were present and quite willing to identify him as the culprit. The watchman who caught the boy presented the pilfered treasures found in his pockets, including a purse containing a silver charm in the shape of a lamb that had been described in detail by one of Roland’s accusers. The boy remained taciturn, but through his curt responses to Wamba’s persistent questioning, it eventually came out that Roland was an orphan, without any relations who would acknowledge him, and that he provided for himself with the stolen coins. Less than an hour passed before Roland was sent back to the cells, to await his sentencing the following day.

Then it was on to the disputes, the first of which was so mundane as to be comical. Two men came forward with a disagreement over the ownership of a well that straddled their respective properties. While their relationship had once been amicable, it had deteriorated as they fell prey to competition and an escalation of petty acts of mutual injury. Wamba listened patiently as they aired their frustrations, then summarily ordered them to either share the well without complaint or fill it in and dig their own separate wells, threatening them with fines if either did anything further to deliberately inconvenience his neighbor.

Wamba shook his head as the two men were escorted from the room, the most obvious display of his true feelings Oscar had yet been able to detect. His attention sharpened again as the second dispute was announced and a man in a fine tooled leather doublet and an impressively robust mustache strode forward to take his turn before the dais.

"Your name, sir?" Wamba inquired evenly.

"My name is Martin.” His voice rang with self-importance.

“And your trade?”

“I’m a merchant by trade, my lord. Exotic goods are my specialty. I have extensive contacts throughout the Frankish lands and the empires of the east.”

“I’m sure they are to your credit, Merchant Martin,” Wamba offered politely. “What is it that brings you before the king’s tribunal today?”

Martin raised a theatrical hand. “Only this, my lord,” he declared in ringing tones that echoed through the hall. “I have by blind providence learned that one of my fellows is engaged in illicit trading of slaves within the walls of this very city.”

Oscar’s head snapped back at once to Wamba, but the man’s face remained impassive as he replied, "The trading of slaves is still permitted within England, Merchant Martin.”

"Ah, but as I am sure you must be aware, my lord, the buying or selling of Christian slaves is expressly prohibited by the king's degree. What’s more, the thralls in question are sufficiently great in number that to unburden himself of them, my fellow merchant must needs transport them beyond the borders of this great kingdom, an activity strictly prohibited by the laws of God and good King Richard.”

Wamba’s eyes narrowed, his brows drawing down in a thoughtful frown. "You are correct on all counts. If such an arrangement has indeed been negotiated, it is in violation of a great many of the restrictions on slave trading in this country. How is it you came to be aware of this transaction?"

"I was also approached and offered payment in flesh by the same noble patron who provided the thralls to my rival."

"You were offered this agreement?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And you refused it?"

"I did,” Martin declared. “My conscience would not permit me to do otherwise."

"Indeed,” Wamba said, eyes on the parchment before him, where he was making quick notes. “And who might this rival of yours be?”

“His name is Alret, my lord. He has a shop not far from here.”

"Is Merchant Alret in attendance to answer your accusation?” Wamba asked.

“He is not.”

“Then he will be summoned. In the meantime, I would see with my own eyes these slaves of which you speak and confirm that they are as you describe them. You know where they are kept?”

“Yes, my lord. Alret has a storehouse near the docks. The thralls were transferred there a fortnight past, to be held awaiting a ship willing to ferry them from England.”

“You will describe the exact location of this storehouse to the guard captain, and it will be investigated.”

He waved over his shoulder at Farren.

Martin bowed, and followed Farren when he stepped from the dais and led the merchant from the hall. Oscar saw them leave from the corner of his eye, but his attention was focused on Wamba, who looked a little paler than he had been, his grip on the quill just a touch less steady. He was alone and unprotected now on the dais, after Farren’s departure. Oscar bit down on a frustrated growl, shifting restlessly and earning himself a glare from his seat mate. He heard little of the final dispute, distracted and impatient for the proceedings to be over so that he could return to Wamba’s side. The discussion seemed to go on for an age, but at last the tribunal was called to a close, just as the tower bell outside tolled noon.

The hall began to empty, and Oscar shot to his feet to weave his way impatiently through the crowd and follow Wamba into the antechamber. He entered to find Farren already there, speaking quietly with a stony Wamba. Oscar quickly tucked himself against the wall and listened.

“We found them. Nearly two dozen of them, just where he said they would be. Mostly young men and women, some children.”

Wamba made a noise of agitation. “How can there be so many? There are hardly a hundred Christian slaves left on the register in England, after the king’s decree against keeping them, and most of those infirm or criminals.”

Oscar spared a thought to wonder how Wamba knew that number so precisely, and also which category Ivanhoe saw fit to use to justify Wamba’s continued enslavement.

“Their collars are new,” Farren noted darkly. “Hardly a scratch or a dent, and the lines where they were sealed still clear as day. Some have fresh burns from the forge.”

“They’ve been collared recently?” Wamba stared hard at Farren, as if he were speaking a foreign language that Wamba did not quite comprehend.

“It appears so.” The brawny man’s face was grim.

“Such a thing,” Wamba breathed. His knees buckled, and he fell heavily into the hard wooden chair beside the table. Oscar swallowed and pressed his palms to the cold stone wall behind him as Farren laid a broad hand on Wamba's shoulder, to steady as well as comfort. Wamba leaned into the touch, breathing deliberately.

After several long moments, he straightened. “If it is as we imagine, if they have been forcibly enslaved in recent weeks, then a grave crime has been committed, and not by this Alret alone. They must first confirm our suspicions. Were you able to question them?”

“They are in poor condition. Starved and exhausted, by the look of them, not to mention terrified. They'll need time to recover before they can tell us anything of the circumstances that brought them to that storehouse.”

“You will see that they are cared for?”

“Of course.” Farren and Wamba shared a private look, some understanding passing between them that Oscar could not divine. Then Wamba smiled.

“I trust you will also locate Merchant Alret and see that he is brought here to offer whatever explanation he might have for his actions?”

“He is being located as we speak.”

Wamba pushed himself to his feet. “Then there is nothing to do now but wait.”

“Try not to dwell on this matter, Wamba,” Farren enjoined him as he stepped away. “I will see you in the morning, and share what we have learned.”

The door closed quietly behind him. Oscar was alone with Wamba and, for the first time since those awkward early days in the castle, at a loss for what to say to break the silence.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheers to the anonymous reader who left kudos! It was a nice surprise!

Quiet descended in the small, cold room after Farren’s departure. Oscar, restless as ever, was unable to let it stand for long.

“That’s your idea of uneventful, then?”

Wamba started from his quiet thoughts, and turned. “Oscar! I nearly forgot you were there for a moment, you were so unusually quiet.” He gave his charge a shaky smile. “How did you enjoy your first visit to the tribunal?”

“It was more exciting than I was led to believe.” Oscar taunted him deliberately.

“Well, you have our friend the merchant to thank for that. Without him, it would have been all petty disputes and the endless, endless chicken theft.” Wamba braced his hands on the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet. He collected a sheet of parchment from the table top and began to carefully roll it into a scroll.

“The chicken thief was interesting, too,” Oscar reached for the second parchment, imitating Wamba’s technique to roll the smooth vellum tight. “He could have hanged for that, couldn’t he? Instead of just a fine. You gave him a second chance.”

Wamba regarded him skeptically. “The fine is not wholly merciful, Oscar. If Elyot was willing to steal the fowl to begin with, rather than procuring them legally, just imagine to what lengths he will be drawn to pay their value three times over. I have not killed him, but I may have ruined him.” Wamba did not appear overly troubled by this possibility. He was merely stating fact.

Oscar proffered his scroll, and scoffed. “I don’t believe that. You wouldn’t have set that fine if you didn’t know he could pay it.”

Wamba took the scroll from Oscar and tucked it under his arm with the other. “I have been compelled to issue many penalties that I would rather have avoided. I try to be fair, Oscar, but I must act within the bounds of the law.”

Oscar noted that he did not refute his charge's assertion. “What about Roland, then?” Oscar challenged him. “Are you going to cut off his hand because the law says so?”

Wamba waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not, Oscar. He’s a desperate boy, not a highwayman. You of all people should know me better than to believe that.”

“I thought you had to 'obey the law'?” Oscar put a soft lilt into his tone to mimic Wamba.

“In this case, the law allows for alternatives that are less severe.”

“What will you do, then?” Oscar demanded.

“If you must know, I’m inclined to sentence him to birching. It won’t do him any lasting harm. Though hopefully it will be enough of a deterrent that he’ll consider carefully before attempting any more thievery. After that, he’ll be put in the custody of the church. They’ll see that he’s looked after.”

"You can have him thrashed?" Oscar squeaked.

Wamba gave him a lopsided smile. “I’m sure we can arrange a double if you think it might benefit your own soul.”

Oscar snorted. “My brother might disagree on the effectiveness of thrashings to cure such behavior."

"Perhaps you are just a particularly stubborn subject."

"I bet you've never gotten it like that," Oscar blustered. "You were probably a perfect little saint.”

Wamba smirked. ”Oh, I had my moments. Once or twice. When I stretched my master's patience too far.”

Oscar sobered, reminded suddenly of Wamba's status. Questions welled in his throat, but Wamba turned to leave before he could ask, carrying his scrolls and beckoning Oscar to follow him outside, where he did not dare give voice to his thoughts lest they be overheard by curious ears. They returned to their chambers, where Oscar set about the duties he had neglected to attend the tribunal, and Wamba settled with his scrolls to copy the sentences into the official record of the court. As the hours passed, Wamba seemed ever more quiet and withdrawn, frowning down at his parchment and making occasional notes. Peering over his shoulder under the pretense of bringing him a fresh mug of cider, Oscar realized that he was attempting to puzzle out the mystery of the slaves. Deciding not to intrude, he returned to his duties.

After a long afternoon of silence, it came as a surprise when Wamba rose that evening and prepared to leave for the court.

“Do you have to go tonight?” Oscar asked, with just a hint of a wheedle. Wamba's strange mood had left him feeling unsteady and protective. “You could stay here and let me fetch your supper.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Wamba said gently, “but I’m afraid my presence at court is necessary for my plans.”

Oscar's interest sharpened at once. “What are you going to do?”

“Do you remember what Martin said?" Wamba asked, though he did not wait for an answer. "He was approached by a lord and offered payment in flesh. Alret ultimately undertook that arrangement, but he was not its architect. Someone in the court has been trading in slaves, possibly in violation of the king's laws.”

Oscar felt his eyes widen and his heart make sudden haste at the implication. “You know who it is.”

“I have my suspicions,” Wamba said, “and sufficient time has passed now that word will have spread of Martin’s actions in the tribunal and the search for Alret. Whomever it was who provided those slaves to him will know by now that a not insignificant amount of coin is on the verge of being seized by the crown.”

“How will you find the right man?” Oscar frowned.

“I won’t have to find him. If I am correct, he will come to me.”

Oscar pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going with you.”

In the end, Wamba’s prediction proved remarkably accurate. They had hardly been in the hall a quarter of an hour when Lord Reginald appeared suddenly at Wamba’s elbow.

“Cedric. I hear you’ve been meddling in the affairs of your betters.” His pointed face was set in a polite mask, but his words, for Wamba’s ears alone, were a poisonous hiss.

Wamba regarded him calmly. “Lord Reginald. You cannot imagine my astonishment that you would be party to this unsavory business.”

Reginald stepped in front of Wamba, cutting off his route to the front of the hall and hemming him in against a heavy table. Oscar bristled, but reined in his protective response, searching Wamba’s face for any cue that intervention was needed.

“That rat Martin is fat, greedy liar. My arrangement with Alret for my merchandise is perfectly legal. You’ve no right to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.” Small specks of spittle flew from Reginald’s twisted lips as he spoke.

Wamba’s gaze hardened, refusing to give ground to the bully before him. “If that is the case, my lord, it should be easily confirmed upon speaking with Alret and with the merchandise in question.”

“You think you have the right to damage my business because the king will not stop you. I will not tolerate this indignity. You are beneath me, and you know nothing of my affairs,” Reginald spat.

Wamba’s eyes narrowed dangerously, his mouth tightening and his voice dropping. “I may not know everything, but I know this, my lord. I know that the last born Christian slaves are too old to be children. I know that the only reasons to secret goods into dark storehouses are suspicious ones. I know that the collars upon your thralls are still warm from the forge that closed them about their necks.”

Reginald would have burned Wamba to a cinder with his gaze, if he could. “You know nothing,” he repeated, then spun on his heel at stalked away.

Wamba watched his back, sagging a bit at the sudden release of tension. Oscar's limbs came slowly back under his control, as though he were tree freed from ice after a long winter. He forced his legs to carry him close to Wamba's side and tentatively reached to grasp his arm.

“Let’s go back,” he whispered, plaintively, and was relieved when Wamba followed without comment, allowing Oscar to guide him from the hall.

It was only once he had Wamba settled on the couch, a mug of warm milk sweetened with honey cradled in his hands, that Oscar finally felt steady enough to ask.

"Did you know it was Reginald?"

Wamba looked up at him. "He was the most likely choice."

"Will he try to hurt you?" he asked, remembering the rage in Reginald's eyes, the threat in his stance and his words.

"He might," Wamba sighed, "but he will not risk it unless he is certain of victory. He is too much a coward for that."

"Are you afraid of him?"

Wamba hummed thoughtfully. "Not as such. I have the king's protection here. He cannot attack me without first discrediting me. But I do think he is capable of terrible deeds, if he would collar freemen without remorse."

Oscar was reminded of the niggling question that had been plaguing him since that morning. He gave it voice. “Do all slaves wear collars?”

Wamba looked up at him, lifting one brow curiously. “It is customary.”

Oscar considered that for a moment. Then said bluntly, “You don’t.”

With a little laugh, Wamba shifted his mug to his left hand and raised the other. “But I do, Oscar.”

It took a long moment to puzzle out his meaning “Your ring?”

“Yes.”

He had seen the ring of course. It sat always on the longest finger of Wamba’s right hand, a simple silver band, wide enough to cover his finger from the knuckle nearly to the first joint and holding a few lines of script. He had never imagined it might be more than a simple piece of jewelry. It certainly did not seem effective as a mark of ownership.

“You could just take that off.”

“I could, I suppose,” Wamba agreed diffidently. “Why would I?”

Oscar frowned. “You could be free.”

Wamba sighed and dropped his hand to his lap, leaning back into the couch with his mug resting in the dip of his belly. “I must tell you, Oscar, that is really not as compelling a reason as you might think it to be.”

“Don’t you want to be free?” Oscar asked.

Wamba gave a little shrug. “My master is kind, and I am well cared for. I have a purpose that serves his interests and gives me satisfaction. To slip my collar and run would only make my life harder, not easier.”

Oscar pursed his mouth, trying to comprehend. From Wamba’s soft laugh, he must have looked very confused indeed.

“I realize it must be hard to understand. Your life has been your own, for the most part. My master offered to free me once, you know, after I did him a service. I declined.”

“What? Why?”

“At that time, it was more frightening to imagine a life without him, than to live my life at his will.” He had that distant look in his eye that Oscar had observed on occasion, the one that brought to the surface the melancholy that lurked ever beneath his smile, the sadness matched by sweetness, by gratitude. It was hard to imagine competing with the memory of a love like that.

Oscar sat down beside Wamba, deflated. He stared into the fire rather that watch Wamba remember his master.

After a long moment, he finally interrupted that reverie to ask, "Do you think Reginald’s slaves feel that way?”

“I doubt it,” Wamba sighed, the spell broken. “From the sound of it, they’ve been treated very poorly.”

“I suppose we’ll know tomorrow.”

“Yes. We will.”


	22. Chapter 22

Breakfast was interrupted by a knock on the door. Oscar went to open it, expecting Farren with news of the slaves recovered from the storehouse. What he found instead almost made him close the door again at once. In the end, he did not have time before Reginald was pushing past him, knocking Oscar hard in the shoulder as he forced his way into the room.

“Visitor for you,” he announced with a scowl and slammed the door, though the warning came too late. Wamba had already risen from his seat. He faced the unwelcome guest with a stony expression, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe.

“Lord Reginald. What misfortune is it that brings you to my door so early in the day?”

Reginald scrutinized the room around him critically, a faint sneer twisting his features as he took in the humble furnishings. Even knowing as he did that nothing there was truly Wamba’s, Oscar still fumed at the pointed scrutiny and the unspoken contempt in the malicious man’s gaze. Wamba too grew tired of the delay.

“Do you have some business with me, Lord Reginald? Or was your purpose to perform a survey of my chambers?”

“Of course,” Reginald said, giving Wamba an unctuous smile that made Oscar’s skin crawl to witness. “I thought to give us an opportunity to conclude our conversation from last evening, before you do something you might come to regret.”

Wamba’s calm stare was unreadable. “I believe we have said all we need to on that topic, my lord. Also, I feel compelled to inform you that your offer of conversation sounds remarkably akin to a threat.”

“A threat! I meant no such thing.” Reginald scoffed, waving a hand at Wamba. He began to pace casually, three strides toward the wall and three back. Oscar kept his eyes on the noble, tense and watching for any sign that Reginald meant to close the distance between his track and Wamba.

“Then I still fail to grasp what you mean to accomplish here.”

“Come, Cedric. You know why I came. The wealth of this country hinges on trade, on the success of the king's loyal vassals. I have no intention to rob the crown of its share of my profits, so there is truly no victim in my little transaction, only profit to be had by all. Surely you can see reason on this.” Reginald smiled again, an expression so completely dishonest that Oscar might have laughed if the situation had not been so deadly serious.

“My answer has not changed, my lord," Wamba said simply. "I will speak with the slaves being kept by Alret, and I will speak with Alret himself, and then I will decide how to proceed.”

Reginald quickly changed tack. “Very well. I see that you are a principled man. No doubt you have some pity for the wretched creatures, though I assure you they are as dull-witted as cattle, if slightly more valuable. So let me relieve you of the burden of deciding their fate. What could one offer the magistrate to have him look the other way on this matter?”

“Bribery, now?” Wamba asked, a hint of disgust curling his lip. “I assure you, there is nothing you can offer that will cause me to do other that I have been charged by the king himself.”

“The king knows nothing of this.”

“It matters little. Those people, be they slaves or otherwise, are the king’s subjects just as much as you or I, and he would see them given just treatment. Of this I have no doubt.”

Reginald abruptly ceased his pacing, and his pretense. His face twisted in a mask of loathing.

“You won’t be moved on this?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord.”

“I’ll see this resolved one way or another.”

“That is my intention as well, Lord Reginald.” Wamba held his gaze.

“We shall see,” the noble hissed. Whirling, he stormed out of the room, once again pushing Oscar aside unacknowledged to wrench open the door.

Wamba stayed firm until the wood met the stone frame in a heavy rattle before he finally allowed his shoulders to drop. He ran a hand over his face, shaking off the tension of the brief, hostile conversation. Oscar approached him carefully.

“I need to speak with Farren,” Wamba muttered. “He’s far too agitated. There must be something else he does not want us to discover.”

Oscar nodded, reaching out a hand to grip Wamba’s forearm. “Let’s go speak to Farren, then.”

Wamba looked at him. “Actually, I think you should remain here today.”

“What?” Oscar exclaimed. “Why now? I already heard everything!” His own voice in his ears was perilously close to a whine.

Wamba sighed, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I cannot risk any appearance of impropriety. Reginald will take issue with anything he can. Best to avoid the dangers we can foresee. I’m sure there will be many we have not.”

So in the end, Oscar was not permitted to accompany Wamba to the tribunal, or to question the slaves. He had no choice but to wait on Wamba’s retelling, if indeed he chose to share it with Oscar. The feeling of betrayal made his stomach clench painfully, gradually uncoiling into hot resentment. Feeling churlish, he left the breakfast tray in disarray and his chores undone and set off into the castle instead. He had no particular destination in mind, so he let his feet lead him by habit to the stable yard. The gray sky shed a chilly drizzle onto the hard packed dirt, the metallic smell of rain sharp and unpleasant in his noise. Oscar did not linger.

He was loitering in the corridor near the guest wing when one of the doors opened and Margaret suddenly appeared. Her pale hair was tucked up under a cap, her apron stained with soot. She blinked when she saw him standing empty-handed and obviously at loose ends, then smiled prettily.

“What luck!" she exclaimed. "I was just going to look for you.”

Pleased at this unexpectedly warm reception, Oscar shot her a rakish grin. “Oh? How can I help you, my lady?”

Margaret giggled. “I mustn’t say. Not here.” She seized his hand and led him quickly down the hall. Her hand was small and warm in his, and Oscar spared a thought to regret that he did not have the sense to fall in love with a beautiful chambermaid. Then they rounded a corner and Margaret tucked herself into a niche that held an unlit torch, pulling Oscar after her.

“What is it?” he laughed. They were pressed close together, her skirts brushing his knees and the sweet dried lavender scent of her enveloping him. He felt suddenly very warm, his heart speeding up.

Margaret was unaffected by the closeness. She leaned out to look furtively up and down the corridor, then reached a hand into her bodice and withdrew a cream colored envelope, which she held it out for him to take. Oscar realized immediately what it must be, and his spirits dropped into his shoes like leaden weights.

“Another one?” he groaned. He let himself fall back against the curved stones of the hard wall, humor dissipating.

“I can’t help it if the ladies all take notice of him,” Margaret shrugged. “I just do as I’m asked.”

She pushed the letter closer to his chest, and he resentfully snatched it from her grasp, stuffing it into his pocket without looking at it.

“He’s just going to reject her, anyway,” he grumbled.

Margaret frowned. “Why do you say that? You don’t even know who it’s from.”

“Because he rejects all of them,” Oscar shrugged. “He keeps the letters, though.”

“He does?” Margaret’s eyes widened, curious.

Oscar nodded. “He showed me the last time you gave me one of these. They’re all in a big wooden box in his chambers.”

Margaret's mouth opened, pure fascination on her delicate features. “Will you show me?” she asked breathlessly.

Oscar hesitated for only a moment. His resentment at being left behind still rankled enough to make him hunger for some petty revenge. He smirked. “Come on,” he whispered conspiratorially. Margaret laughed delightedly, and let him take her hand to lead her to Wamba’s chambers.

Though he knew Wamba was away, Oscar made a show of carefully opening the door, poking his head inside to ensure that the room was empty, gratified to hear Margaret laugh at his antics. He pulled her inside and quickly slammed the door behind them. The wooden box containing the letters was just where he remembered it, resting on the bottom shelf behind the desk. He slid it out and carried it to the low table before the fire and set it there ceremoniously before giving Margaret a bow and waving her toward the unassuming little box.

“If you would do the honors,” he smirked.

Margaret laughed and dropped to her knees before the box. She lifted the lid slowly, peering into the narrow gap as it widened, as though she expected snakes or spiders to swarm from within. Nothing crawled out, and the lid lifted fully at last to reveal the hidden letters that Wamba had scrupulously preserved.

“So many,” Margaret breathed, running her hand along the edge of the envelope that she herself had delivered only a few months ago. “I wonder what they say.”

“Do you want me to read them to you?” Oscar offered. In truth, he was also more than a little curious what sort of flowery verse had been penned in Wamba’s honor. At Margaret’s enthusiastic nod, he opened the first, and began to sound out the words inscribed there in an elegant hand. Ten minutes later, they were both in stitches, toppled against the table with uncontained hilarity.

“Depthless orbs!” Margaret gasped. “She said his eyes were depthless orbs!”

“And his resolute brow! Mustn’t forget the brow!” They both collapsed again, howling with laughter.

Steadily, they worked their way through the collection of letters, each more ridiculous than the last, until there were only two left in the very bottom of the box. Oscar pulled out the next to last, and paused, his laughter dying in his throat. He blinked. The letter in his hand was markedly different from the others. It was clearly older, and well worn, the parchment weak at the edges of the folds. He opened it in careful motions, taking care not to tear it further, until at last it was resting lightly across his palms, revealing a heavy script that he doubted belonged to any lady.

“What is it? What does it say?” Margaret asked, sobering as Oscar remained silent, staring at the letter draped across his hands.

There were no names, nothing to indicate either author or recipient, but Oscar knew at once what this was. A letter from the Saxon to his slave. His stomach turned over and sudden horror engulfed him, sending chills down his spine as he realized what he had done.

“Oscar? Are you alright?” Margaret’s voice sounded far away. Oscar tried to find words to describe how grave his mistake had been, but nothing came to his lips that could adequately express his sudden dismay.

“I think I should attend to my duties,” he said instead, tongue feeling numb and distant. Margaret quickly stood, brushing her hand down her apron to straighten it.

“Yes,” she stammered. “Yes, as should I.”

She glanced back once, confusion and concern written clear across her features, but he paid her no mind. He was still on his knees on the rug, the letter in his hands. As the door closed, he transferred it to the tabletop, laying it out so he could examine it more closely. He pulled out the last letter as well, laying it out beside the first. The words were simple, and much of what they relayed was perfectly mundane news, but interspersed throughout were subtle hints of more, of a longing that for so many reasons could not be written plain.

_I grow tired of cold beds and dull conversation._

Oscar had a sudden urge to tear out his hair, and maybe his eyes. Instead, he read and reread the words, his hands clenching tighter with each repetition.

_More and more I think of home._

His heart pounded deafeningly in his ears, trying to burst from his chest. Oscar wished it would beat itself out and release him from the pure torment of his unrequited yearning.

_I await the day when I will have you at my side again._

There was no chance for him, as long as a dead man had such a hold on Wamba.

Oscar had no sense of how long he sat there, staring into the fire, emotions writhing in a twisted mix of rage and despair and jealousy. He knew only that one moment the letters were on the table and the next they were in his hand, and he was leaning toward the flames. Faintly, he heard the creak of the door.

“Oscar, have you…” Wamba’s words died, his face going ashen.

Oscar snatched his hand back from view, but it was too late.

“What are you doing?” Wamba’s voice quaked with shock, his eyes unreadable as he strode forward. He took in the letters scattered across the floor, the empty box, and held a trembling hand out to Oscar. “Give those to me,” he demanded unsteadily.

Oscar was frozen, still in the grips of the horror of being discovered plundering Wamba’s most private secrets. He was not prepared for the sharp slap that landed across his cheek, snapping his head to the side.

Stunned, he stared mutely as Wamba pulled the delicate letters forcibly from his grip. For a long moment, they just looked at each other, and somehow they were strangers again, the warmth and the trust smashed like so much glass.

“I,” Wamba began, but his face crumpled before he could say more. Instead, he turned and fled the room, the battered letters clutched protectively to his chest. The door to the bedroom shut with a note of solemn finality.

Oscar’s cheek stung fiercely. It worsened at the contact of his salty tears, a physical ache to echo the hollow agony of his heart. For a long time, he huddled on the rug, staring at the mess he had made, and wondered how very badly he had broken what he and Wamba had.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_Cedric had quickly decided that Thurstan was insufferable._

_The Saxon guided his horse deftly between the stumps of a recently cleared copse at the edge of his furthest field, listening grimly to the endless prattling of the haughty young man at his side._

_“I am astounded that you manage to rear one hundred head of healthy swine on such a paltry estate,” Thurstan exclaimed. “My father’s must be nearly double what I have observed here, and we’re always forced to tolerate our pies without bacon by mid-winter. You must tell me the secret, so that I may put your art to work at Redmont.” Cedric gritted his teeth and said nothing, subtly putting his heels to his mount to spur him faster toward the castle._

_When he had received a letter from his childhood playmate Alger he had been delighted. Alger’s estate was far to the North, and they had not seen one another in a score or more of years, but he was happy to grant his friend’s request and shelter his son for a few days as he made his way to London. Thurstan had arrived three weeks later, just after noon on the first day of August. He had introduced himself to Cedric, and commenced to comment on every single item that caught his eye. So far as Cedric could observe, he had yet to pause for breath. The Saxon, naturally inclined toward silence when no words were necessary, had in his own estimation borne the nattering for as long as could reasonably be expected of any sensible man._

_He would have been deeply insulted if any dared to term his quickened pace a retreat, but he was more than ready to return from the brief tour of Rotherwood’s outer lands and find some pretext under which to excuse himself from the chatty young noble’s presence. It was with deep relief that he watched the keep come into view at last, standing stout and proud in the bright sunlight. Rotherwood Castle was a sprawling complex of square Saxon construction, situated on a low hill at and bounded by a sturdy fortification. Beyond, the verdant curtain of the Greenwood formed a rich backdrop to the pale stone of the walls._

_Cedric made for the western gate, which stood open in anticipation of their return. He noticed as he approached that the guard on the wall was distracted by something in the yard, peering down into the keep instead of observing their approach. Cedric took a breath to shout a reprimand, but stopped short as he cleared the gate. In the kitchen garden, at the edge of the vegetable patch, a small crowd of children and kitchen maids in stained aprons had gathered. Curiosity piqued, Cedric pointed his horse in their direction when, quick as an arrow, a small black projectile shot up above the heads of the crowd. As one they watched it fly, reach its peak and fall, then burst into sudden applause. Cedric pushed forward just enough to catch sight of a slender figure bowing shallowly to the crowd, his golden hair shining in the bright sunlight. Before he could stop himself, Cedric smiled.  
_

_Wamba hefted two painted wooden balls in his hands, weighing them thoughtfully. Then he bent his knees and used his entire body to launch one high. As the onlookers watched breathlessly, he took two quick steps to the side, then leapt into an agile flip, turning twice before he paused to throw the second ball as well. The first was still aloft, just beginning its return toward the earth. Wamba flipped again, throwing himself backward and landing on his hands, just in time to catch the first ball on the sole of his bare foot. He bent his leg to absorb the blow, and let the momentum carry him upright once more in a graceful contortion, keeping the first ball balanced on his foot and extending a casual hand to catch the second orb as it descended._

_The crowd shrieked joyfully at this display. Cedric watched astonished, his mouth falling open even as Wamba looked up at last, and caught sight of him at the back of the crowd. The boy grinned, and gave his master a deep bow. It broke the spell of the impromptu performance, as the gathered spectators, following his eyes and realizing their lord had caught them loitering about the yard instead of attending to their duties, swiftly began to disband. Wamba’s gaze did not leave Cedric as he approached through the departing servants. He stopped at Cedric’s knee and placed a gentle hand on the horse’s neck. He was glowing after the exertion in the heat of high summer, his loose linen tunic unlaced at the neck, baring his pale skin and sharp collarbones._

_“Uncle,” he greeted Cedric, offering his master a sweet smile that crinkled the skin around his dark eyes. “You’ve caught me at practice. I would have much preferred to show you the perfected trick.”_

_Cedric returned his smile and opened his mouth to respond, when another voice interrupted them._

_“Who is this fascinating creature?” Thurstan spurred his mount parallel with Cedric’s, gazing in open interest at Wamba, who shied under the sudden attention, dropping his eyes to avoid the appearance of impropriety.  
_

_Cedric scowled to see Wamba cowed. He had no patience to explain, so he responded curtly, “This is my clown.”_

_“He’s a juggler, then? An acrobat?” Thurstan’s voice contained a note of covetousness that Cedric found frankly alarming._

_So he said, as diffidently as possible, “He is a simple thrall."_

_"You say he is a thrall, my lord, but he wears no collar." Thurstan observed, his eyes roving over Wamba’s exposed neck with sharp hunger that raised Cedric’s hackles._

_"No. It was removed against my wishes and I have not yet bothered having it replaced."_

_“Let me save you the trouble. Sell him to me. I'll give you sixty crowns for him."_

_Cedric jerked in his saddle, causing his horse to startle. Below him, Wamba grasped the beast's bridle and calmed him with a soothing touch, his shoulders stiff and eyes downcast.  
_

_“A generous offer,” Cedric croaked at last. It was, in fact, more than three times the price Wamba could be expected to fetch at market._

_"I think it more than fair."_

_"Sadly, I fear I must decline. I cannot deceive you. The lad has a rather dire infirmity of the mind. Knowing the extent of it as I do, I am best prepared to see that no harm comes of it. I could not in good conscience pass him along to someone who might be less ready to see to his care.”_

_“He’s mad?” Thurstan frowned. “Well, that’s a bit of a disappointment.”_

_“Alas, he is my burden to bear,” Cedric said, holding tightly to his reins. “I count it among my acts of Christian charity.”_

_Thurstan shrugged, "I suppose we must all pay our due to heaven." His attention was, thankfully, thoroughly deflected._

_"As you say," Cedric agreed, relieved._

_He did not have a chance to speak to Wamba again before the feast to welcome Thurstan that evening. The boy took a seat at the lower table, at the furthest end from the dais. He did not offer to perform for their guest, and under no circumstances would Cedric have asked it of him. Cedric caught his eye once, and received a lightning fast smile, before he was forced to rescue Rowena from the overeager young noble’s intrusive brand of curiosity._

_When he was at long last able to retire without causing insult, he stalked to his private rooms and stood in his bedchamber savoring the silence for a long moment. He thought to call for wine, but changed his mind and made for his wardrobe instead, shedding his doublet and breeches in favor of a soft pair of linen trousers. The mirror hanging there reflected back the lined face of a man past his prime, the gray at his temples beginning to encroach into the remaining brown. Cedric fancied that one day with Thurstan had aged him at least a year. Then he shook his head at his own vanity and collected the letter that Thurstan had delivered on behalf of Alger. He settled on the bed to read it, a pair of candles burning bright on his bed table._

_Wamba crept quietly into the room some time later. Cedric watched from the corner of his eye as the boy laid his garments across the bench beside the bed and slipped into his thin nightshirt. When the young slave crawled beneath the bedding, Cedric finally set the letter aside. Wamba slid close to Cedric and curled against his hip, a warm weight. The Saxon laughed softly, wrapping an arm around Wamba to pull him tighter to his body. “You smell of bread. And apples.”_

_“I was in the kitchen.” Wamba smiled up at him, just a touch wickedly. He slid one bare leg over Cedric’s lap and shifted up to settle atop him, their faces a hand’s breadth apart. “Does my lord desire a taste?”_

_Cedric's brow rose at this unexpected overture. Wamba had spent so many years feigning his madness, it was difficult at times to find where the jester ended and the genuine playfulness began. Loosed, Wamba's mischievousness made him a splendid partner._

_Wamba looked suddenly bashful, and Cedric realized he was simply staring at the boy. So he let his fond smile show and asked teasingly, “Are you a serpent come to tempt me?”_

_An answering shy curl appeared at the corners of Wamba’s mouth. He leaned in closer and breathed, “Not a serpent, no, but if you are Adam then I will play Eve.”_

_“That is blasphemy, knave.” Cedric let a hint of an edge harden his words. Wamba was put off not at all. His impish smile widened by degrees. Cedric quirked a brow at him. "Where is my taste, then?"_

_He waited while they regarded one another. Then Wamba finally closed the distance between them, and briefly, hesitantly brushed his master’s mouth with his own. When he pulled away he was blushing hotly with his own boldness. Cedric laughed again, low and warm. He knew what Wamba desired from him, so he took his slave’s heated face in his hands and pulled him back for a deep kiss, chasing the sweet nectar in his mouth. Wamba's kiss was like his jests, fleeting, teasing, and inviting. He never pushed, but drew his master into his mouth, and as always, he yielded beautifully to Cedric’s ardent riposte. Their tongues tangled slowly as Cedric pushed his own into Wamba's mouth, stroking along the silky slick skin there. Wamba moaned softly and shuddered against him, slim arms winding around his neck. There was an easy rhythm to this, the Saxon fanning the flame of his slave's desire with a practiced touch, drinking up the small whimpers that escaped the boy's throat as his reward. It felt like an age before Cedric pulled away again, watching Wamba’s dazed eyes slide open and his swollen lips part, waiting for more._

_Impatient, Cedric pulled at Wamba’s shift, wrestling it up and over his head so he could put his mouth to the slave’s neck and his bare chest, tasting the salt of his skin and biting a line of kisses along his collarbone before returning again to his sweet mouth. The Saxon's hands wandered as well, one going around Wamba’s waist as the other crept down to grip at the soft flesh of the boy’s rump. Wamba laughed breathlessly against his lips, and rolled his hips forward in a teasing thrust. Cedric had just time to register the groan from his own throat, then Wamba’s weight was gone, and clever hands were freeing him from his trousers. He heard the click of the lid of the oil pot being removed, before slick fingers were massaging his cock with smooth, steady strokes._

_Cedric opened his eyes and watched Wamba’s face, intent on his task. When he looked up, and met Cedric’s gaze, he smiled. There was no trace of apprehension in his expression, only desire that mirrored Cedric’s own. Wamba shifted forward again and reached back to guide himself down, seating himself in one long push that left them both gasping. Cedric knew that he would try to move at once, with no regard for himself, so by sheer will he grasped the boy’s hips, and forced him to wait for his body to adjust to accommodate Cedric. For Wamba, his own comfort was ever secondary to his master's pleasure, as though it gave Cedric no pleasure to watch Wamba come apart on his fingers or under his tongue, to turn this gorgeous, fey boy into a desperate, wanton mess begging to be taken. So Cedric reminded him, each time, and only when the delicious pressure that surrounded him had eased just enough did Cedric release Wamba’s hips._

_The boy lifted himself a fraction at first, slowly increasing his speed until he found a leisurely rhythm that suited them both. Cedric let Wamba do as he wished for a while, keeping his hands moving, stroking down the slave’s narrow chest, his stomach, his neck, until Wamba was so overcome by the combined stimulation that he was gasping helplessly on each downward stroke, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck that Cedric licked from his skin, savoring the light musk on his tongue. Then he wrapped both arms around Wamba’s hips and bent his knees, forcing the boy’s body into closer contact, and changing the angle of penetration just enough to make Wamba cry out, his back arching sharply and his hands dancing on Cedric’s shoulders._

_The Saxon grinned. Then he pulled the boy forward to kiss his neck, laying his teeth gently against the sharp jaw as he used the leverage granted by this new position to take control of the pace of their coupling. Wamba mewled and pushed against him, his glowing skin sliding against Cedric's. His eager cock was trapped now between their bellies, his knees sinking into the bedding on either side of Cedric as their movements grew urgent. Feeling his end approaching, Cedric gripped Wamba’s waist and pushed deep, slamming their bodies together once, then again._

_“Come for me, my splendid one.”_

_Wamba did, his head thrown back and lips parted. The grip of his body around Cedric and the glorious noise he made carried his master with him to climax._

_Long moments later, Wamba opened his eyes and met his master's gaze. The Saxon hooked a gentle hand around his neck and pulled his slave down for another consuming kiss. Wamba yielded easily, welcoming him with a hum of contentment as they basked in the pleasurable wake of their joining. When they separated, Wamba was smiling, humor creeping back into his face._

_“Your burden, am I?”_

_Cedric barked a laugh. “My curse, more likely.” Tenderly, he cupped Wamba’s face between affectionate hands. “And my blessing.”_

_Wamba went wide-eyed and bashful, an enchanting blush darkening his cheeks. He quickly hid his face in his master’s neck, wrapping his arms tightly around Cedric’s shoulders, where they betrayed his trembling._

_Cedric stroked a gentle hand down Wamba’s sharp spine, hushing the boy quietly as his shuddering breaths fanned across Cedric's throat. "Peace, child. You know I would not give you up. Not for any price.”_

_He felt Wamba nod hesitantly against his neck. It was plain enough that the boy did not believe him. After everything he had endured, he was still so slow to trust in any good in his life. Cedric continued to hold him, gentling him with soft touches until the trembling stilled. Then he bundled them both beneath the furs. Wamba did not believe him, but Cedric meant to do everything necessary to ensure that one day he would._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex. Wamba is 17.


	24. Chapter 24

“What happened to you, Wamba?” Wilfred demanded, throwing his gloves on the table with a sharp slap.

Wamba regarded him from across the room, his expression still as a millpond and just as opaque. “I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

Wilfred scoffed. He had returned to London flush with victory after a thorough rout of the Scots in Northumbria. His force had suffered only minor casualties, while the thieving raiders, weakened by a long winter, had managed to put up little resistance before retreating back to their villages with their numbers severely depleted. The king’s interests and his people secure for the time being, Wilfred had ridden into London in high spirits, only to find Wamba subdued, reticent, and frustratingly resistant to Wilfred’s attempts to cheer him. Finally, at a loss, he had ushered Wamba to his chambers to force the issue.

“Do not think you can fool me,” Wilfred admonished him. “I’ve been back two days and you’ve yet to so much as show me an honest smile. And where is your headstrong little shadow? I’ve not caught even a whiff of his presence since my return.”

Wamba looked away, his fingers playing with the edges of his sleeves. It was a nervous habit he had never outgrown.

“Well?” Wilfred demanded, as he stalked back toward Wamba and into the sphere of warmth cast by the healthy fire. “Will you tell me? Or must I roam the halls in search of servants to interrogate for the latest gossip?”

The grimace on Wamba’s face spoke clear enough what he thought of that idea. Reluctantly, he confessed, “Oscar and I had a disagreement.”

“I suspected as much,” Wilfred nodded. “Have you dismissed him?”

Wamba shook his head. “No, to do so would be to sentence him to mutilation. He remains in my charge. Though I admit I have been avoiding him."

"Why?"

"I have been contemplating the best way to apologize for my part in the rift that has formed between us.” He regarded a dusty corner of the room as if the answer he sought would appear there.

“From your words, I must conclude this was no minor quarrel.”

“No,” Wamba whispered.

Wilfred sighed. “Come and sit,” he commanded. He snatched up the carafe of strong wine on the table and poured two generous goblets. One he handed to Wamba, who had obediently taken a seat. The other he kept for himself as he leaned a hand against the mantel and regarded his friend with an expression carefully schooled to patience.

“Tell me what happened.”

Wamba took a fortifying drink from the goblet. His sat with his back perfectly straight and regarded the fire rather than meet Wilfred's eyes. “I have a box where I keep a collection of personal letters I have received.” He flushed suddenly, and murmured to his goblet, “There are two from your father among them.”

Wilfred’s heart twinged painfully beneath his ribs. Wamba rarely spoke to the knight of the tender affair he and Cedric had shared, whether from embarrassment or simply his ever assiduous consideration for Wilfred’s own sensibilities. Either way, Wilfred had no reservations about the matter. He had been convinced early on that the liaison benefited both of them, and said nothing further to question it. He had, in fact, championed it on more than one occasion. Nevertheless, Wamba remained circumspect.

He did not give Wilfred a chance to voice any of these thoughts before continuing. “I found Oscar with the box. He had those letters in his hand. It seemed to me at that moment that he meant to throw them into the fire.” Wamba’s voice wavered dangerously, and his lips thinned.

Wilfred stood up straight. “They were recovered?”

“Yes,” Wamba sighed, “but I fear I did not act as calmly as I might have done.”

“What did you do?”

Wamba stared down into his goblet. “I struck him. I could not stop myself.”

Wilfred gazed at his distraught friend in bemusement. “Wamba, there is nothing unnatural about your actions. He attempted to destroy something precious to you.”

Wamba shook his head emphatically. “That does not excuse what I did."

Wilfred pushed himself from the mantel and settled himself in the chair facing Wamba. He reached out a careful hand to rest on the young man’s knee, brushing a thumb along the soft wool of his robe. “What is so unforgivable? Wamba, you are a man, not a saint."

"I should not have resorted to violence. I would not hold him at fault if he could not forgive me.” Wamba watched Wilfred's hand where it rested on his leg.

Changing tack, Wilfred asked instead, "Can you say that my father never struck you in anger? Or had another do it for him?”

Wamba turned his head further away from Wilfred, expression pained. "You know I cannot."

"And do you hate him for it?" the knight pressed him.

"Never," Wamba choked.

Wamba’s turmoil softened Wilfred. “You were ever too quick to blame yourself. Rather than judging your own actions, I think you might examine what caused Oscar to wish to destroy the letters.” Wilfred had suspected from the start that the boy might be harboring more than respect for Wamba, but said nothing at their last encounter lest his suspicions prove false.

Wamba, it seemed, had perceived no such thing. He frowned, but his eyes turned to Wilfred again at last. “What do you mean?”

“He clearly read something there that he found distasteful." Wilfred decided to be blunt. "Is it so hard to see that he is jealous?”

Wamba's frowned at him. “You think Oscar is jealous? Of your father? Surely you cannot mean...”

“Is it so unbelievable that someone would care for you?” Wilfred asked sadly.

Wamba swallowed. “No. I can believe it. But I could never allow it.”

“Why not?”

Wamba’s voice was low and tense. “I cannot think of him that way. Even if I could, he is young. Too young. On top of which, he is a prisoner, Wilfred, for all practical purposes. I would not abuse that.”

Wilfred abruptly stood. “By that logic, you were also too young. Do you mean to say you suffered my father’s attentions because he was your master?”

“Never,” Wamba said at once, “but Oscar is different. He is innocent. I was...”

“Spoiled? Broken? Those things that Galen said to you? You do my father great dishonor if you still believe those words after all that he did to prove to you otherwise.”

"No," Wamba said sharply, stopping the knight short. "I was those things, Wilfred. He knew it, and it was he who made me otherwise. He gave me back to myself. To deny it would be to dishonor him."

"Wamba," Wilfred said brokenly. He fell back to his chair.

Determinedly, Wamba pressed on. "Oscar has no need of rescue. He has nothing to gain by such a dalliance. It was never my intention to hurt him, though I have carelessly done so. I must find a way to apologize.”

“If that is how you feel, then by all means apologize,” Wilfred sighed. “Do not forget, however, that you are not the only one in the wrong in this instance. You should not dismiss the injury he did you, one which might have been much more grave but for your timely intervention.”

“I understand,” Wamba whispered.

“Good.” Wilfred drank deep from his goblet, then smirked.

"I suppose you'll think twice about teaching anyone to read again."

The corners of Wamba's mouth twitched reluctantly. He rubbed a rueful hand through his hair, leaving it mussed. "I've no one to blame but myself, surely."

Wilfred watched him for a long moment, letting his fondness and pride for the young man warm him.

“May I stay with you a while longer?” Wamba asked quietly.

“Of course!” Wilfred smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I have more to tell you of York, still.”

So Wilfred talked, and Wamba listened silently for a while. Gradually, he began to smile.


	25. Chapter 25

The soft thump of the door roused Oscar from his fitful sleep. He blinked hazily up at the ceiling and listened hard, holding his breath and willing his heartbeat to silence. His ears confirmed what his heart already knew. Wamba was gone, departed before dawn as he had every morning for the past week. Oscar lay tangled in his blankets. He sought to muster the will to move, but his limbs were heavy and sluggish to obey. Day by day, his misery deepened, a heavy pall that slowed his mind and chained his thoughts. His stomach now rebelled at even the suggestion of food. His sleep was fitful and full of cruel shadows mocking him for the fool he now knew himself to be.

He had not slept at all the first night. Instead he spent those hours alternately weeping desperately into his hands and trying not to think about the dawn, when reprisal surely awaited him. That morning was the first that he had listened to the bedroom door close and known he had been left behind. Still, he had not been dismissed, so he swallowed down the nauseous clench of nerves in his belly and forced his brittle limbs to unfold and carry him to his bowl. He scrubbed the stiff salt of tears from his cheeks and cursed himself once more for good measure before he set about his duties.

In all his years, Oscar had never tread so carefully. He changed the linens, tended the fires, and swept the floors. He could not quite bring himself to look at his writing again, so he spent the evenings imagining instead what he would say to Wamba if he could apologize. He was ready to apologize. If only he could find Wamba.

In a week, the man had not set foot into the library, at least not while Oscar was there to witness it. He returned late into the night, his entrance announced only by the telltale creak of the bedroom door. He was gone again as soon as the sky began to pale in the morning. Oscar wondered if Wamba’s sleep was as troubled as his own, if he went about his days exhausted and sad, if he thought endlessly about the moment when the trust between them had shattered, or if these were the trials afforded Oscar alone by the undeniable guilt that hung heavy on him.

His friends, of course, noticed the abrupt change. Emma in particular was insistent on trying to speak with him whenever their paths crossed. He suspected she had heard something from Margaret of their aborted mischief, but she did not mention it, and the hard knot that had taken up a permanent place in his throat prevented him offering any worthwhile explanation. He shook his head and moved on, her hand falling from his shoulder and leaving him cold once more.

Unable to speak to Wamba, Oscar did the only thing he could. He waited.

Then Ivanhoe reappeared. With him a new set of terrors rose for Oscar to mull as he twisted on his pallet at night, listening for the sound of Wamba’s return. The knight’s gaze was razor sharp in his memory, the protectiveness for his slave that surely would not abide the sort of crime Oscar had committed against Wamba. Terrified of facing the knight, Oscar confined his movements to the servants’ passages, slinking cautiously about the tower like the thief he had been.

Each night, the door creaked. Each morning. Still he saw nothing of Wamba. On the tenth day, he woke suddenly from a vivid dream of being back in the hall, on his knees before the king. The court laughed at him, jeered and threw stones and no one appeared to save him. He clutched at his bedclothes to ground him, sucking in heaving breaths that escaped him in heavy, dry sobs. The despair in his heart was a leaden weight, filling the cavity of his chest and leaving no room for his lungs to breathe. Gradually, the choking feeling receded, though familiar deep melancholy lingered.

Oscar wondered for a brief moment what had woken him, but of course it must have been the door. It was always the door. He thought to fight off the lethargy that engulfed him, but failed. There was no reason to rise, in truth. Wamba was gone. Wamba would probably never speak to him again. He sighed. He heard it echo, and frowned.

“Oscar.”

He leapt up with the swiftness of a flying bolt, stumbling a bit on drained legs. His heart began to race desperately in his chest, in a frantic rhythm of a stag fleeing a pack of dogs. There before him stood Wamba, no dream or illusion but the man himself. Oscar’s first thought was that he looked tired. He was in his plain tunic and hose, looking small and thin out of his robes. His skin was pale, his face gaunt, and dark shadows nested in the hollows beneath his eyes. In fact, he looked exactly as exhausted as Oscar felt.

He did not say this. He did not say anything. He could not make his throat open, though his mouth was parted and ready to form words.

For a long moment, they regarded one another in silence. Then Wamba clasped his hands together and ventured, “Are you well, Oscar?”

Oscar’s broken heart spoke before his mind had a chance to intervene. “No,” he croaked, the knot in his throat refusing to loosen even now when he desperately needed it to do so.

Wamba looked away. “I know you must be angry with me.”

“What?” Oscar squeaked. His muddled mind failed to make sense of what he was hearing.

“For striking you,” Wamba continued. “I hope you can forgive me for that.”

“No!” Oscar’s whole being rejected the idea.

Wamba flinched. “Ah. I see.”

“No!” he shouted again, reaching out a hand toward Wamba, though he did not dare step closer. Desperation forced his words back under his power at last, and they burst forth as violently as water through a broken dam. “I mean, of course I forgive you, but it was my fault. I was a fool. Such a fool. I should never have read your letters. It wasn’t any of my concern. I wanted to apologize to you. This whole time. I’m not well. Not at all. Not without you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

It was hardly the considered apology he had rehearsed endlessly in his head, but it appeared to have had the intended effect. Wamba’s dark eyes were on him again, his mouth softening promisingly into the barest notion of a smile. “I fear I have suffered from your absence as well. If you are amenable, perhaps we can agree to put this incident behind us and continue our time together in a more friendly manner.”

“Yes,” Oscar breathed. “Please.” His hands were shaking.

“I’m glad.” Wamba’s smile was more robust this time, relief shining clearly on his angular features. Oscar was helpless but to stare, his chest aching pitifully and his eyes burning dangerously.

"I thought you would never talk to me again," he confessed, sniffling a bit.

Wamba looked suddenly pained. "I know." He sighed. "I am sorry for the uncertainty I caused you."

"It's alright," he mumbled, swiping roughly at his cheek where a tear had finally fought its way out.

"I should have been more mindful of your circumstances," Wamba said. "It was not my intent to make you fear so." He finally did what Oscar could not, and closed the distance between them, his steps soft and gentle, as was the hand that brushed across Oscar's cheek where he had scrubbed the tear away. Oscar looked up and found him very close.

"I know," he whispered.

Wamba bit his lip, and looked conflicted for a moment before asking, cautiously, "Can you tell me why you did it?"

"I was angry," Oscar confessed, ashamed.

"Because I left you behind?" Wamba asked.

Oscar scuffed his bare foot against the cool stones of the floor as he nodded. "It was foolish."

"Were you going to burn them all?" Wamba's voice shook a bit.

"No," Oscar whispered. "Just those two."

"Why?"

Perhaps it was the exhaustion that broke his last defense. Perhaps the feeling had just become so powerful his body could no longer contain it. Oscar was not sure what it was that possessed him to open his mouth and blurt out, “I love you.”

The change was instantaneous. Wamba’s face twisted in dismay. His hand dropped. “Oscar,” he said weakly, and it sounded like the beginning of a reprimand.

“I love you,” he barreled on. It was done now, and he would take it through to the end or be damned trying. “I want to be with you. Now. Always.”

Wamba shook his head. He was infinitely gentle as he said, “I’m sorry, Oscar. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t love me?” Oscar demanded. He fancied he could hear the sharp snap of his heart shattering.

“I care about you, Oscar. Very much.” Wamba reached out again, putting a gentle hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Please try to understand. You’re so young. You have your whole life to live yet, and many loves still to meet."

Oscar wondered if this morass of contradictory emotions was what Wamba’s lady admirers felt. The gentle refusal was so considerate, so well meant that Oscar could not help but love him more, even as his heart was bleeding itself out in his chest.

"I will never love anyone else. I know it," he insisted, urgently.

“You may feel that way now,” Wamba murmured, giving his shoulder a brief, warm clasp. “But you must trust me on this count. Never is a very long time, though it may not seem so now. You know, better than most, that I have nothing to offer but what I am. Do not settle for so little, when much could be yours."

“You’re more than enough," he whispered.

"Take your time, Oscar," Wamba urged him.

Oscar could not even muster the strength to nod.

"Shall we have some breakfast?” Wamba asked, his smile close and hesitant, offering a hand on the road to return to friendship. He stepped back, leaving Oscar unsteady but with a growing sense of warmth. Perhaps he could not have Wamba, not as he wished, not now, but the hopelessness of the past days was fading at last, the gloom dissolving by slow degrees, allowing the sun to shine through a little.

The first cautious fingers of a new understanding laced together in a delicate pattern between them, more than he could have dared to hope after his betrayal. The smile on his lips felt stiff, unpracticed after so many days, but the ache of it was like green shoots pushing through the last snow of winter.

He let the honest relief break through, and gradually his smile remembered itself. “Alright.”


	26. Chapter 26

Going back to the way they had been turned out to be a much more challenging prospect than Oscar had realized. His untimely confession and Wamba’s gentle dismissal had created a new veil of wariness that remained a subtle but stubborn barrier between them and normalcy. Wamba still smiled, still thanked him warmly for every minor service, but he maintained a careful distance that Oscar could not help but note, revealed in sidelong glances and aborted gestures that might once have been casual touches.

Rather than dwell on his frustrations, Oscar committed himself anew to providing the care that Wamba had been missing during their period of separation, determined to prove to Wamba once again that he could be trusted, not only with the magistrate’s person but with his counsel as well. His perseverance was rewarded when, over supper one night, Wamba finally spoke to him of what had transpired with the slaves that he and Farren had gone to interrogate.

“You mean you haven’t resolved that yet?” Oscar frowned, refilling Wamba’s mug of watered wine, then his own.

“Not yet,” Wamba said, picking at his bowl of stew. He had set it carelessly atop the scrolls that had occupied him all afternoon, and was in considerable peril of staining the thin parchment with his food. Carefully, Oscar reached over and tugged the scrolls out from beneath the wooden bowl. He brushed off a stray bit of carrot before rolling them both tightly and setting them to the side.

“You can be quite a fusspot at times, you know.” Wamba smiled, eyes warm, though he quickly looked away.

“If you would eat it instead of tossing it about with your spoon, I wouldn’t need to be,” Oscar rejoined tartly.

Wamba took a conciliatory bite of the stew. Oscar nodded in satisfaction, and returned to his own meal.

“What happened with the slaves, then?”

“Unfortunately, they have not been quite as useful as we had hoped.” Wamba sighed. “They told us that they were serfs, and collarless until just a few weeks before their arrival here, as we suspected. However, they were unable to share with us the name of their lord who ordered them enslaved, or of the man who conveyed them from their homes to London. They are not even able to tell us where their homes might be.”

“What?” Oscar squawked. “How can they not know where they come from?”

To his disappointment, Wamba set down his spoon and sat back in his chair, cradling his wine between his hands. “It’s not so unusual as you might think, actually. Serfs in the countryside frequently spend their whole lives working the same plot of land. They know their family and their neighbors. They know that they have a lord, whose marshals come and claim tribute each year. To them, he is a distant figure. They may never have met him, and if they have they have no reason to remember his name.”

“Don’t they get curious?” Oscar asked.

“Perhaps,” Wamba said, tapping his fingers on the sides of his wooden mug. “It’s hard to concern yourself with such distant matters as the affairs of the nobility when all your strength must go to finding ways to preserve yourself and your family through the winter. A lord is like God to them. He is a distant figure who takes a tithe in return for merciful treatment. He deals punishments for misbehavior. They exist as long as he is satisfied.”

“Is it that way for all serfs?” Oscar said doubtfully.

“Not all of them, no,” Wamba conceded, “but a great many, in particular those on the larger fiefdoms. Which I daresay was the origin of our friends with the new collars.”

“So what use was it talking to them?”

“Thanks to their stories, we know that a crime was committed. Now it is a matter of determining who exactly was the original culprit.”

“Did you talk to Alret?” Oscar remembered the merchant’s name being mentioned in the original tribunal.

Wamba nodded. “We did. He denies any knowledge that the slaves were newly collared. He also claims to have purchased them from a prison in Hereford which, if true, would relieve him of any guilt in the matter.”

“What? Why?” Oscar asked.

“The making or trading of Christian thralls is prohibited under the king’s decree, but it makes exception for those sentenced to slavery for their crimes before the decree was made, which happened after King Richard returned from the Holy Land. If they were made slaves and sold by the authority that sentenced them, then no crime was committed.”

“You know they were not sentenced officially.”

“I do,” Wamba sighed, “but I cannot show proof of the provenience of Alret's slaves, or that he had any knowledge of the manner of their enslavement.”

“You mean he could get away with it?” Oscar groaned incredulously.

“It’s possible,” Wamba nodded. “But you’ll remember that there are others who had knowledge of this arrangement.”

“Reginald!” Oscar exclaimed, remembering the snarling noble and his threatening demands.

“Yes, Reginald.” Wamba set his mug on the table and leaned forward onto his elbows, sagging a bit. “It took some time, but I was finally able to question him. He claims that his involvement was only to fund the transaction, that Alret approached him with the opportunity but lacked the coin, and he provided it in good faith that the thralls were legally available for purchase.”

“Why would he want them if he knew about the ban?”

“Slaves are a valuable commodity, Oscar. More so now that they are relatively rare in England. Two dozen slaves up for purchase at an attractive price would turn the head of any number of savvy but unscrupulous nobles.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Wamba pushed his bowl to the side, drawing his scrolls back in front of him and spreading one flat on the table. “At the moment, I am waiting for one more piece of information.”

“What?”

“You remember Martin, I’m sure.”

“He’s rather hard to forget,” Oscar smirked, recalling easily the rotund man and his theatrical delivery of his complaint.

“Then you’ll also remember that he claimed to have been approached by a lord who offered him the same arrangement as Alret, which he declined. If he names Reginald as that man…”

“Then it was Reginald who arranged it, and not Alret!” Oscar exclaimed.

“Just so,” Wamba smiled. “Merchant Martin has traveled to York on some errand related to his dealings. He is expected back to London in the next day or so. Once I have his story in detail, I will be ready to make a recommendation to the king.”

“Why do you need to recommend anything to the king?”

“The matter of Alret and the slaves will be handled in the tribunal, but I have no authority over Reginald. If he is to be taken to task for his role in this, it will be up to the king to decide how.”

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “This will all be over soon, then.”

“I can only hope,” Wamba said, dipping his quill. 

While Wamba returned to his task, Oscar gathered the dishes and made his way down to the kitchen. Now that summer was full upon them, the doors and windows in the kitchen were thrown open in an effort to ease the stifling heat of the large cooking fires that burned day and night. A gaggle of kitchen maids bustled about, scraping the remains of the platters from the hall onto trenchers for the servants’ supper. Scruffy little scullions scampered between their skirts, trying to pocket the best bits before the rest of the castle servants arrived. Already sated, Oscar avoided the crush of hungry people around the heavy table and dropped his tray in the corner by the wash pails for the scullions to clean along with the rest of the mess that was the result of a day of life in the castle.

He was on his way back out when a hand suddenly hooked around his elbow in a pincer grip. He yelped, and spun around, coming face to face with a shifty-looking Gregory. His face was even paler than usual and his lips were pinched, making his equine face appear even longer.

“Gregory?” Oscar asked, shaking off his grip.

“Oscar. Do you have a moment?” The tall boy’s tone was stilted, obviously aiming for natural and missing by a good mile.

“What is it?” While Gregory was not the closest of his friends in the castle, he had never appeared so uncomfortable around Oscar. Over the months, they had developed a grudging respect for one another, and Oscar could not help but be concerned by this odd behavior.

“Help me fetch the ale from the cellar,” Gregory said stiffly.

Frowning, Oscar followed him, but his patience expired as soon as they were safely alone in the dimly lit cellar, standing between the heavy barrels of cider and ale. “What’s going on, Gregory?”

“I’m not sure if I should tell you this,” Gregory said, rubbing an anxious hand across the back of his own neck.

“Tell me what?” Oscar demanded.

“I know that Cedric has been asking questions of Lord Reginald.” Gregory flashed a glance up to meet his eyes. “Everyone knows, actually.”

Oscar felt a quick stab of resentment at that, as he had only just learned of it himself, but he let it pass. His ignorance was the product of his wallowing and had been his own doing. He turned to tug at one of the smaller casks of ale, perched atop a stack of wine barrels, coaxing it to the edge where it fell neatly into his arms. “What of it?”

“Lord Reginald’s not happy. He thinks Cedric is trying to convince the king to remove him from court.”

“I don’t see that he can do much about it if the king sees fit to send him away,” Oscar sneered.

“No, but he can try to remove Cedric first.”

Oscar jerked around, staring at Gregory, searching for any sign of teasing. The set of his jaw and darkly drawn brow were evidence enough he was deadly serious.

“He can’t.” Oscar said.

“I think he might have found a way.”

“What do you mean?”

To Oscar’s shock, the usually composed boy began to wring his hands. “I shouldn’t tell you this. I really shouldn't. But I overheard my father and Lord Reginald talking. My father doesn’t like Cedric. I don’t know why, exactly. He’s always resented him, ever since he came to the tower.” Alard, the steward, was not known for his warm disposition by any stretch, but he was scrupulous in his duties, and ever solicitous of the nobility.

“What happened?”

“Lord Reginald commented on his desire to have Cedric dismissed from his position as magistrate, and my father said he knew something about Cedric that would see him disgraced at once, if it was revealed.” Gregory stared meaningfully at him. “Does he have any secrets, Oscar? Something that could ruin him?”

“Oh,” Oscar gasped. Of course Alard would know Wamba’s secret. He was the king’s steward, and kept the castle books. Wamba lived in the castle, so he must be on those books, and not as a guest, but as an asset, a slave on loan to the king.

Gregory was still watching him, and it did not take much of a leap to guess what he suspected the secret must be. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Are you certain?” the tall boy asked doubtfully.

“There is something, but it’s nothing to do with me, I promise you.”

“Well, whatever it is, my father knows about it, and now Lord Reginald does, too.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Oscar wondered suddenly. He did not doubt the truth of Gregory’s words, but he could not help but question his motive for betraying his own father.

Gregory reached out for the cask Oscar had retrieved. His shoulders twitched uncomfortably. “It felt like the right thing to do. That's all.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“As servants, we’re trusted with all manner of confidences and secrets. It’s our duty to keep them, when it matters.”

Oscar swallowed, and gripped Gregory’s thin arm. “You’re a good man, Gregory. Thank you.”

The other boy just nodded, hefting the ale. “I’ve got this. Go see to your master.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said again, then he was hurrying through the halls back to Wamba.


	27. Chapter 27

“Wamba!”

Oscar barreled through the door, heaving it closed behind him with a shuddering crash. Wamba started upright at his thunderous entrance, wide eyed.

“What is it, Oscar? Are you alright?”

“Reginald,” Oscar gasped, fighting to calm his breathing.

“What on earth happened, Oscar? Come and sit, and tell me what has you panicked so.” Wamba quickly crossed the room and took his arm in a warm grip. It was grounding, quieting Oscar’s urgency enough that he could think. Oscar let Wamba lead him to the couch. He sat, but bolted up again nearly at once, pacing restlessly. Wamba calmly tucked his hands into his sleeves, standing quiet and steady.

“Tell me what happened.”

“It’s Reginald,” Oscar spat, shuffling restlessly from one side of the hearth to the other. “He knows about you.”

Wamba raised a questioning brow. “What does he know?”

“He knows that you’re a slave. He means to reveal your secret and have you removed from your post.”

“Someone told you this?” Wamba asked, still calm, though his cheeks paled.

“I’m friendly with the steward’s son,” Oscar admitted. He did not wish to create difficulties for Gregory, but if he must choose between protecting his friend and protecting Wamba, there was no question where his loyalties would fall.

“Alard’s son has the confidences of Lord Reginald?” Wamba frowned.

“No,” Oscar waved an impatient hand. “Alard is close with Reginald. His son overheard them talking. He said that the steward offered to give Reginald information that would force the king to remove you at once.”

Wamba stared thoughtfully at the rug, one finger tapping at his lip. “Your friend did not hear the details of this information?”

Oscar gave a regretful shake of his head. “Not that he told me, but what else could it be? What other secret could possibly be as damning as that one?”

“I fear you’re correct,” Wamba said, “but regardless, Reginald can do nothing without proof. To make such a claim, to risk the ire of the king, he must have irrefutable evidence to back his claim.”

“Can’t Alard give that to him?”

Wamba lowered himself to the couch, one arm braced on the sturdy back to steady him. “He could, but I doubt he will. To do so would be a grave violation of the king’s trust, and by his actions he would forfeit his rank as steward. It seems too great a risk for an ambitious and practical man such as Alard.”

“Why does he hate you so much?” Oscar asked. “Did you do something to him?”

“Alard is a man of principle and tradition. I violate both of those, and as a result, he does not approve of me. He has never agreed with the king’s decision to insert me here among the trappings of a noble guest, nor with my role at court. He cannot express his displeasure to the king, so he makes it plain to me instead. I fear he believes he has found a way to rid himself of me completely in Reginald.” Wamba rubbed a weary hand across his eyes.

Oscar finally stopped pacing and sat, inching closer to Wamba. “What will you do about it?”

“There is nothing I can do, Oscar,” Wamba sighed. “If Reginald means to expose me, he will do so. In the meantime, I will continue as if I knew nothing of it. I will speak with Martin, and I will deal with the slaves. That is all.”

Carefully, Oscar reached out and took Wamba’s free hand in his own, curling his fingers around the chilled skin, offering what comfort he could. Wamba did not look up, but he made no move to pull away.

It was two days before Martin made his appearance in the tribunal. Walking in with Wamba once again, Oscar was shocked to find Lord Reginald seated on the very first bench, flanked on either side by an imposing bodyguard. The two men wore matching surcoats over their mail, bright red emblazoned with a lean bird of prey in stark black. The benches were empty all around them. Though Wamba must have noted this pointed display, he did nothing to acknowledge the lord’s presence.

"Is Merchant Martin in attendance?" he asked serenely.

"He is," Farren responded in his low rumble.

"Please bring him forward. We'll dispense with this matter first."

At Farren's call, the rotund merchant hustled quickly to the front of the room. He had lost much of the polish displayed on his first visit to the tribunal, appearing disheveled and rather frenetic. It was clear from the start of the interview that Martin was indeed aware of Reginald and his men. He darted them frequent sidelong glances, and their silent menace had an immediate dampening effect on his ebullient personality. Martin stumbled and stuttered through the questioning. Wamba, by contrast, was a picture of composure, his gaze wavering not at all from the man before him, though the merchant’s answers grew ever more evasive.

"I fear, my lord, I have nothing more to offer on the subject," Martin said, mopping at his beaded brow.

“Merchant Martin, you stood here before me scant weeks ago and declared that you had been approached and offered an agreement by which you would purchase slaves from a noble of the king’s court. You now tell me that no such exchange took place?”

Martin shuffled from foot to foot nervously. “Apologies, your lordship. I must have been mistaken.”

“How was it then that you came to know of the thralls in Alret’s possession and report them to this tribunal?” Wamba inquired cooly.

“I witnessed them entering Alret’s storehouse, my lord."

"That was the first you knew of them?"

"Yes."

“That is your final word on the matter?”

“It is,” Martin nodded frantically.

“Very well, Merchant Martin. You are dismissed.” Wamba waved him off, and Farren swiftly called for new claims. Reginald’s satisfied smirk was more than Oscar could bear to watch. He turned away, forcing his eyes forward though his thoughts were on anything but the tribunal. He pondered instead what proof Reginald might have discovered to taunt Wamba so openly. He had something. Of that Oscar had no doubt. To his knowledge, however, the only proof of Wamba's status to be found was either safely with Ivanhoe at his estate, where Reginald could not reach it, or contained in the king's household records. Wamba seemed confident that Alard would not risk his livelihood by betraying the king, but he might have intimated to Reginald where proof was to be found that would not implicate the steward. The possibility of a witness came to mind, someone who had known Wamba as a jester, perhaps. He quickly dismissed the idea. The word of a witness would not be impressive enough to discredit Wamba, not with the king and Ivanhoe both standing ready to support his claim. It needed to be irrefutable, but with no collar and no household records, he did not know what could be left.

Something niggled at him, a tantalizing glimmer of a thought just out of reach of his questing mind, but he could not grasp it. He was pulled suddenly from his deep concentration by the sudden movement in the hall as the tribunal was dismissed. He turned from the dispersing crowd and followed Wamba into the antechamber.

“What a waste.” Wamba dropped his scrolls on the table and crossed his arms. “I should have guessed Reginald would find some way to interfere.”

“Why not interview Martin privately?” Farren asked.

“It won’t do much good. He’s already made a public declaration refuting his original claim, and nothing he says now will have any weight.” Wamba said. “But alright. We may as well get to the root of everything. Will you fetch him for me?”

Farren nodded, and swiftly disappeared in pursuit of Martin.

"Reginald threatened him," Oscar said.

"I know, Oscar." Wamba heaved a frustrated sigh, leaning on both hands on the table, his head bowed.

"He'll do anything to get what he wants."

“There is still a chance…” Wamba paused at the creak of the door opening. Oscar turned, expecting Farren. Instead a pair of dark shadows filled the frame. A blade flashed and then Oscar was scrambling backward, away from a dagger aimed at his throat. A rough hand clamped down on his shoulder, slamming him backward into the unforgiving stone wall of the antechamber. Winded, he peered up the field of red covering the vast barrel chest and recognized one of Reginald’s guards looming over him. The other was advancing on Wamba.

“What is the meaning of this?” Wamba demanded. He stood tall in the center of the room, watching as Reginald barred the door. “Lord Reginald, this is quite improper.”

Reginald’s features twisted in that stomach churning smirk he had worn in the hall, full of his victory. "I don't think you're in any position to be telling me about improper."

"I must ask that you take your men and leave," Wamba said.

“Now, now,” Reginald hissed. “I just want to have a little chat about how you'll be giving me everything I want.”

Wamba paled, but did not waver. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and said, “I have already heard your version of events, my lord.”

Reginald stared at him for a moment. Then his face twisted and he laughed, a harsh, ugly rasp. “I should have guessed your little secret sooner. Of course only a slave would make a fuss about a pack of flea-bitten mongrels like that. I think, however, that you might have a change of heart, as poor foolish Martin did. At least, if you wish for your secret to remain such.” He circled Wamba slowly, a wolf stalking his prey.

Wamba looked straight ahead, not giving Reginald the satisfaction of his dismay. “You think to intimidate me as you did Martin. Let me assure you, my lord, I am not so easily deterred, and there is nothing I detest so much as a bully.”

The sharp crack of the swift backhanded blow rent the air like a whiplash. Wamba crumpled, landing hard on his knees and just barely catching himself on his hands, while Oscar jerked madly against the arm across his chest, cursing Reginald savagely all the while. The noble ignored him entirely, leaning down and grasping a handful of Wamba’s hair, wrenching his face up.

“Hold your tongue, you piece of filth. You disgust me, profaning the post you fill, masquerading as a noble, daring to talk to me as an equal. You are nothing. I should kill you here and now for your insolence. I would be well within my rights to do so.”

Amazingly, Wamba laughed, brash and mocking. “Ah, but then, my lord, you would be beholden to my master for my value four times over, and I assure you I fetch a far more handsome price than those wretches you stole from their land and made chattel.”

Reginald struck him again, an openhanded blow that snapped his head to the side and twisted his body in the fierce grip that still restrained him. He took it in silence.

“Stop it!” Oscar screamed, his eyes and throat burning treacherously as he continued to beat ineffectually at the immovable wall of a man restraining him.

Behind Reginald, the door rattled on its hinges. The noble released Wamba with a contemptuous shove, stepping back. He straightened his doublet calmly. The pounding on the door grew more insistent.

“I will not kill you today,” Reginald sneered, his lip curled in disgust, “but unless you want your little secret revealed before the entire court, you will do as I say and release those slaves to me.”

The door gave way with a deep groan, and Farren barreled his way into the small room like an enraged bull. The big soldier’s eyes narrowed as they caught sight of Wamba on his knees, his hand going to his sword. He hesitated at the quick shake of Wamba’s head. For a beat, all was still. Then Reginald cleared his throat, and the man holding Oscar stepped back, allowing him to rush to Wamba’s side at last.

“We understand each other, then,” Reginald said conversationally.

With Oscar’s help, Wamba pushed himself slowly to his feet. He met Reginald’s eyes steadily, his lip bloodied and his cheek darkening quickly in a cruel bruise. “Your words have been noted, my lord.”

“Excellent. Come along, men.”

Then he was gone. Farren and Oscar only just managed to catch Wamba as his legs gave out.


	28. Chapter 28

Between them, Oscar and Farren guided Wamba safely into the room’s sole chair. It was a hard backed monstrosity that offered little comfort, but he met it gratefully, and immediately slumped over onto his elbow, supporting his head on one hand.

“Wamba,” Farren intoned, the single word weighted with all of his anger and concern. He dropped to one knee before the chair, lifting a hand to tilt Wamba’s face to the light and inspect the damage.

“I’m alright, Farren,” Wamba murmured, eyes closed. “My head’s just spinning a bit. It would seem Lord Reginald is a practiced hand at dealing out blows, though it surprises me not at all to learn it.”

“He had no right to do this,” Farren growled. His touch on Wamba’s battered face was gentle, probing with exquisite tenderness at the corner of his mouth. Wamba hissed softly but did not pull away.

“His charge was not without merit. He had as much right as any other.”

Farren snorted. “I wager Lord Wilfred would have something to say to that.”

“He would chide me for crumpling as swiftly as a wilting maiden, no doubt.”

“Your wit is growing feeble if you think that a worthy jest,” Farren said. “I should not have left you.”

“You can hardly trail about after me every hour of every day.” Wamba opened one eye to smile weakly at the big man. “Not that I don’t appreciate your dedication to your task.”

Farren pulled his hand away and stood. “What did he want?”

Wamba sighed, pushing himself upright in his seat. “Reginald has evidently learned that I am not what I appear to be. He has threatened to use this information against me should I fail to do as he wishes and return the enslaved serfs to his possession. He also confirmed my suspicion that he has similarly threatened Merchant Martin to ensure that he did not reveal the truth in the tribunal today.”

“How did he find you out?”

While Wamba explained, Oscar slipped out into the main hall to fetch the clay pitcher of water and wooden goblet that always sat on the table. The room was eerily still, with the doors at the end of the hall barred and the guards gone, rows of empty benches measuring out its length. He startled when he turned and spied Martin standing in the corner. The corpulent man just stared at him, pale faced and nervously twisting his hands together, so he marched back into the antechamber and closed the door without a word.

“Martin is in the hall,” he announced, “and I need a rag.”

“You found him, then?” Wamba asked, as Farren reached into his pocket and withdrew a plain linen cloth, which he handed to Oscar.

“He’s here,” Farren confirmed, “but you are in no state to speak with him now. I’ll summon him back later, when you have had a chance to rest.”

“No,” Wamba shook his head firmly. “That’s not necessary. I will fare well enough as I am. Just give me something to clean myself up a bit.”

Oscar shouldered Farren out of the way to hand Wamba his goblet. The cool, wet rag he folded and pressed carefully against Wamba’s swelling cheek. Wamba’s fingers laced with his briefly as he took over the hold on the cloth, and their eyes met. “Thank you, Oscar.”

“Are you certain?” Farren persisted. “It will be my head Lord Wilfred is braying after if you collapse.”

“It was just a few smacks, Farren. Hardly a mortal wound. Or do you think me so weak that I can be felled by an open hand?”

Farren frowned. Quietly, he rumbled, “I have never doubted your strength, Wamba. You know that.”

Wamba’s mouth quirked. “You have more faith than most in a slave,” he said warmly.

“There are hardly any left against whom to compare you.” Farren gave him a terse look. “So you shall have to content yourself with being the bar against which the rest are measured.”

_There are hardly any left against whom to compare you._

The gruff words echoed in Oscar’s head. In harmony, he heard Wamba’s voice in his memory, clear as a bell on a winter morning.

_Slaves are a valuable commodity, Oscar. More so now that they are relatively rare in England._

In a sudden flash, the thought that had been eluding him earlier leapt to his mind in perfect clarity.

_There are hardly a hundred Christian slaves left on the register in England._

The register. There was a register of all the slaves in the kingdom. Somewhere in the castle, someone had that list, and on it was Wamba’s name. That was the proof that Reginald sought, that would undo even Ivanhoe's word. Oscar opened his mouth to share his revelation, but quickly shut it again. Even if Wamba knew where the register was kept, he would bring too much attention to it if he went to claim it himself. If Oscar were to find it, however, and quietly remove it from Reginald’s reach, the problem would be neatly solved.

Wamba braced his hands on the arms of his chair, preparing to stand. Oscar quickly pushed the thought of the register to the back of his mind for later, stepping forward to offer a hand to steady Wamba. The bruise from the first blow was still darkening, a dusky purple hue painting the hollow of his cheek, but he had cleaned the blood from his lip and his eyes were clear.

He darted Oscar a small smile. “Shall we?”

“If we must,” Oscar grumbled, but stepped aside to let Wamba make his way back into the hall.

The interview with Martin confirmed everything they had suspected. Not only had Reginald ordered his lackeys to intimidate and assault the merchant, but he had threatened the man’s family as well. Oscar found it hard to suffer to his blubbering for any length. Instead, he watched Wamba where he stood beside the table, one hand surreptitiously extended to keep his body steady as he listened attentively to what Martin had to say.

“So it was indeed Reginald who tried to interest you in the slaves?” he asked, his tone carefully measured.

“It was, my lord, though I could not say so in the tribunal.” Martin wrung his hands.

“It is enough that you have found the courage to tell me as much now,” Wamba said. “Did he make known to you the manner of their enslavement, when you spoke?”

“He did not, my lord. Only that he sought a partner to make the purchase for him and profit by it.”

“If you did not suspect their origin, what made you refuse the offer?”

“It was not their origin that concerned me, my lord, but rather that he wished them sold beyond England’s borders,” Martin confessed. “I am no smuggler, nor do I intend to become one.”

“That is admirable, at least," Wamba said evenly. "I believe I have understood the situation, Merchant Martin. Your honestly is appreciated. I trust that you will make yourself available if you are required further.”

“Of course, my lord,” Martin bowed hastily.

“Then you may go,” Wamba crossed his arms, and watched as Farren ushered the merchant to the door, barring it after him.

“Now will you rest?” Oscar asked pointedly, taking Wamba’s elbow in a careful grip.

“Yes, very well,” Wamba sighed. He turned, allowing Oscar to lead him back to the antechamber to gather his scrolls. Oscar waited for Farren to return before opening the door to the yard, wary of a further appearance by Reginald. He peered around carefully as they emerged, but his fears proved to be unfounded, and they made their way back to Wamba’s chambers unimpeded. Once there, Wamba immediately went to the table, rolling out his scrolls over Oscar’s vehement protests.

“You said you would rest!”

“I’m going to forbid you spending any more time in Farren’s presence if you insist on taking on his mother hen ways,” Wamba threatened irritably. “I am more than capable of doing my duty, Oscar.”

Abruptly, Oscar's eyes began to itch and his throat tightened. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. It had all happened so suddenly. The shock of seeing Wamba thrown down, the terror of standing helpless while the gentle man was brutalized that had roiled within him unacknowledged pushed their way to the fore in a relentless swell. He sniffed, rubbing irritably at his eyes.

“Oh, Oscar.” Wamba pushed himself back to his feet, pulling Oscar into a quick hug. “I’m sorry you were frightened. All is well.”

Oscar leaned his head on Wamba’s shoulder, savoring his warmth and the soft vibration of his voice in his chest. It would be so easy to let himself be lulled by that comfort, to let Wamba manage the whole messy affair. Instead, he stepped away from the simple embrace, fighting for control. The ugly bruise on Wamba’s cheek served as a stark reminder of why he must do his part to thwart Reginald’s schemes.

“Will you eat at least?” Oscar asked, forcing lightness into his voice.

Wamba huffed a quiet laugh. “Yes, Oscar. If it will make you feel better.”

With a determined nod, Oscar slapped at his own cheeks to center himself. “I’ll fetch something.”

The unexpectedly eventful afternoon meant that the dinner hour was long past, and preparations for the nightly feast in the hall well under way in the kitchens. The long benches along the side of the room were lined with large platters, ready to be filled with roasted meats fresh from the fire. He ignored the food, making his way with purpose out into the garden instead. There, as expected, he found Emma and Gregory lounging in the shadow of the great wall, taking a rest before their evening chores.

Emma saw him first, looking up with her riotous curls hanging a bit damply around her shoulders, no doubt from a cooling dunk in the well bucket. Her hazel eyes widened as she took in his expression.

“Oscar! What happened? You look terrible.”

“You always know just what to say,” Oscar snorted, forcing a smile onto his face. He dropped down beside Gregory. "I don't know what I would do without your constant encouragement."

Emma leaned across Gregory to swat at him with her cap. “Just wait and see if I ever bother to ask after you again.”

Gregory dodged quickly back out of the path of the cap, snatching it from her grasp. He held it up out of her reach while he asked Oscar. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a magistrate to be looking after?”

"He can manage on his own for an hour or two."

"Now I know something's wrong with you," Emma snorted, swinging at the cap as Gregory waved it about. "You hardly leave his side anymore. No time for the likes of us when his lordship's dainty toes might be getting cold without his slippers."

Oscar ignored the jibe. “Actually, I need to find something. I’m hoping you can help me.” He affected an air of nonchalance, but his friends saw through him at once. He found himself on the receiving end of two pointedly suspicious looks.

“Planning another heist, are you?” Emma taunted. “Didn’t learn your lesson the first time?” She lunged, taking advantage of Gregory's distraction to snatch back her cap.

“Nothing like that,” Oscar protested, leaning out of the way of their scuffle. "I've had enough trips to the dungeons for one year."

“What, then?” she asked.

“I just need to know who keeps records for the king. Land, titles, that sort of thing.”

“You mean the court archivist?” Emma chirped. “He has all the rolls of the nobility and all the rest in that musty cupboard of his.”

Oscar crossed his legs and sat forward. “Is he in the castle?”

“Well, yes,” Emma frowned, “all those records are kept in the king’s tower, on the floor below his private study. Though I don’t know what you want with all those dusty old scrolls. Hardly anyone goes in there, even to tidy the place."

“Is this to do with Cedric?” Gregory asked quietly.

Oscar shrugged diffidently. “Just curiosity, really.”

Behind his careful nonchalance, his mind was racing. He knew where he had to go. Reginald wanted that record, to prove Wamba a liar. Oscar needed to find it first.


	29. Chapter 29

The record room was surprisingly easy to find, once Oscar knew where to look. It was also very well guarded. Two soldiers from the king’s garrison stood sentinel flanking the doorway, their pikes a clear challenge to any who might seek to enter without permission. Oscar scanned their faces warily as he approached down the corridor, searching for any spark of suspicion, though he forced his steps to remain measured and calm. Fortunately, their expressions bore no trace of recognition, so he concluded that they had not been among the dozen or so guards who had manhandled him into or out of cells on previous occasions. He put on a vacuous smile.

“State your business, boy,” one of the pair said disinterestedly, sparing him barely a glance.

“The steward sent me,” he piped innocently, turning his foolish grin on the guard who had addressed him, rocking casually on his heels.

“A simpleton, are you?” the guard snorted. “Why did he send you?”

“He said I’m to clean the record room before the archivist disappears completely under the wagonloads of dust.”

“Did he?” the second guard smirked. He shared an amused look with his fellow, then pushed open the door to the record room. “You be sure to tell that to Clerewald. Those words exactly.”

“Oh, I will, sir!” Oscar assured him, bobbing past into the room, exulting silently at how easy the subterfuge had been. Then he got a look at the room before him, and his spirits abruptly plummeted.

He had expected something resembling the neat order of Wamba’s compendiums in his little library. Instead, the record room was a scene of barely controlled chaos. From what he could tell, the room itself was fairly small, no larger than the antechamber of the tribunal, but tall bookshelves stretched to the rafters on all sides, stuffed to capacity with a motley collection of books, scrolls, and even loose sheets of parchment in a bafflingly haphazard arrangement. A quick glance confirmed that not a single shelf bore a label or any other indication as to the content of its records, meaning that whatever system was being employed would likely be indecipherable to him. Oscar had thought to snatch the register quickly, to be in and out and back to Wamba with supper before he was missed. That now appeared unlikely.

From deep within this rabbit’s warren, a gravelly voice called out, “Who is that? What do you want?”

“The steward sent me!” Oscar called back.

Sidling between the shelves, he worked his way into the heart of the record room, where a small desk sat, surrounded on all sides by looming walls of precariously stacked documents. A single candle stood on the desk, unlit. Oscar found this reassuring, as being trapped in these highly flammable surroundings with an open flame seemed the worst kind of folly. A single narrow window provided the only light in the room, the warm rays of the late afternoon sun creating intricate shadows along the floor. It shone also on the hunched form of the archivist, making his downy white hair glow in a blinding halo about his head. He wore a long blue robe and a suspicious gaze, which he narrowed at Oscar.

“What does Alard want?” Clerewald snapped.

“He sent me to clean, sir,” Oscar said meekly. “Said you could use some aid.”

“Ha!” Clerewald barked. “That fool can’t help himself. Always meddling.” He shuffled around the edge of the desk, grabbing a handful of scrolls and shoving them into the last remaining gap in a shelf that was already brimming with similar scrolls. “You go back and tell him there’s nothing that needs cleaning here. I keep a tidy archive, and he’s got no ground to question it merely because he’s too imbecilic to see the sense of it.”

“Yes, sir,” Oscar nodded, gazing around again at the chaos that surrounded him. He noted with some surprise that while the records were not particularly orderly, they did not appear to be any dustier than any other room in the castle. “Since I’m here, though, is there something I can help you with?” he asked lamely, wracking his brain for some new excuse to stay and search for the register he needed.

Clerewald fixed him with one beady eye capped by a snowy bush of an eyebrow. “Want to help, do you?”

“If you’ve something that needs doing, sir.”

“I take it Alard won’t be too pleased if you go back and tell him I sent you away,” the old man said thoughtfully, one spidery hand stroking at his chin, where a few long whiskers clung gamely among the copious wrinkles.

“He’s a harsh taskmaster, sir,” Oscar agreed, playing up his reluctance to leave. “I’ve already angered him once this week. I fear he might dismiss me for a second mistake.”

“Well, as much as I detest letting that man think he got the better of me, I can’t have a blameless servant losing his wages on account of our little feud.” Clerewald waved him forward. “Can you read, lad?”

“Passably well, sir,” Oscar nodded.

“Good. Then you can sort the family records for me. I haven’t touched the new notices for months, and they’re piling up.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!”

While he knew that Wamba was expecting him back, he was hesitant to lose his chance at finding the register. So Oscar found himself carefully sorting piles of letters for the archivist to update the family records of the noble houses of England. They had to be arranged first by locality and then by type, with births, marriages and deaths each in a separate pile. The sheer number was somewhat astonishing, and as he worked he peppered Clerewald with questions.

“Is England really big enough to have this many noble families?”

“Have you no schooling in history, lad?” Clerewald snapped, scandalized.

“None, sir.”

“I should like to have words with your tutor in that case,” the old man grumbled. He pulled a large scroll down from one of the higher shelves and spread it on the table. “Have a look at that, then.”

Curious, Oscar peered down at the perplexing tangle of words and stark lines, running every which way at various angles, forming an awkward shape, fat at the bottom and narrowing toward the top. At first, he could make no sense of it, turning his head from side to side to try to make the picture come into focus. Then, near his right hand, he spotted a single word he recognized.

“London,” he breathed, running his hand over the shaky oval that bore the name of his home. “It’s a map!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“It is indeed,” Clerewald agreed.

“Is all of this England?” he asked breathlessly, looking up the length of the map to where it hung off the far end of the table.

“Yes, and Scotland and Wales.”

“And this is London? This little bit here?” Oscar touched the little spot again, marveling at how small it seemed surrounded by the rest. London was his whole world, all he had ever known, and here it was dwarfed by the reality of England.

Clerewald smiled, pleased by his awed reaction. “That map is the official record of the land. Each noble estate is recorded upon it, and those borders can only be changed by the king’s command.”

“Where is Lord Ivanhoe’s estate?” he asked eagerly. He regretted this rashness at once, but Clerewald merely pointed.

“Thinking you might pay the hero a visit at his home, are you? You’d be better served to catch him while he’s at court, if you’ve the nerve. Rotherwood is in the midlands, a full three days ride from here, at least.”

Oscar leaned over the map to get a better look, his eyes finding the small label at the end of the archivist’s finger. “Rotherwood,” he whispered, appreciating for the first time how very far from home Wamba was.

“That’s his ancestral home, mind,” Clerewald continued. “The king has also granted him Torquilstone and its surrounds as well.”

Oscar nodded absently, his mind returning again to his original purpose here. He had evidently won Clerewald over enough that the man was feeling generous with his information, so he pressed on. “Do you keep all the records of land and property here?”

“Of course,” Clerewald said indignantly. “That is the chief function of the archivist, after all.”

“How do you find anything?” he asked, then seeing the archivist’s raised brow, stuttered quickly, “I mean, there’s so much here. Surely you must have a remarkable way of keeping it all in order.”

“There’s no great mystery to it,” Clerewald coughed, waving a hand about the room as he explained. “The general records are kept here, in the center. Records of the gentry are to the west, tax records to the north, and individual estate records to the east, shire by shire.”

“You mean, you know how much each of the noble families owns?” Oscar asked.

“Well, not down to the exact number of pigs, but in general terms, this archive records the wealth of each of England’s lords. Of course, more significant assets such as castles and mills have their own registry.”

A frisson of excitement ran through Oscar, making his voice shake a bit as he asked, “Are those kept by shire as well?”

“Of course,” Clerewald nodded. “There are far too many of them to record all in one place.”

“I see,” Oscar said, his muscles wound tight with anticipation. He was so close.

Abruptly, Clerewald stood, stalling Oscar’s next question. He began rolling the map back into a tight scroll. “Now, I think that’s quite enough chatter for one day. I am well overdue for my supper, thanks to your late arrival. If you wish to be of further use, you may return tomorrow. Closer to the noon bell, if you please. I’m an old man and not fond of unexpected disturbances.”

Oscar had no choice but to let Clerewald shoo him from the room. He watched as the old man carefully locked the door behind them, tucking the key into his pocket as he made his way along the corridor. Defeated, Oscar retreated to the kitchens to fetch the food he had promised Wamba many hours ago. He endured the expected gentle chiding for his tardiness, all while he silently comforted himself that the afternoon had not been a total waste. He knew that what he sought was in the records room. Soon it would be within his grasp.


	30. Chapter 30

Oscar woke early, chased from sleep by fitful dreams haunted by shadowy phantoms, snatching at him from the edges of his vision, pulling him back even as he tried to flee. He panted up at the ceiling, kicking his thin sheet away from where it had become tangled about his legs by his flailing, spreading his limbs wide to let the cool air dry the sweat from his skin. The gray light of earliest dawn gave the room around him a washed out appearance, all the warmth of the bound leather books and vibrant rugs stolen away by bleakness, blending into the dull stone around them.

Shaking off the sense of gloom that threatened, Oscar forced himself out of bed and into his tunic and breeches. It was at least an hour before Wamba could be expected to stir, so Oscar meandered down to the kitchen garden, where he hoisted a bucket from the well and dunked his head vigorously, shaking like a dog to shed the water along with the last of his melancholy. He settled in a familiar patch of grass against the castle wall to watch the sky fill with color, contemplating the day ahead.

Today Wamba would deliver his verdict on the slaves. He had not asked Wamba what he planned to do. He already knew. It fell to Oscar not to try to convince him to protect himself by compromising his morals, but to thwart those who would hurt him, to take the necessary steps to ensure that Wamba did not suffer for doing as his conscience commanded. He knew the proof Reginald sought, and it was nearly within his grasp. One more day was all he needed.

When the sky had lightened and he could no longer ignore the cacophony of the morning kitchens, he made his way back inside to his duties, to a breakfast that neither he nor Wamba really touched. The bruise where Reginald’s knuckles had struck had darkened overnight into an ugly stain on Wamba’s cheek, and just the sight of it caused such a rage to boil up inside Oscar that he was forced to avert his gaze. Perhaps Wamba sensed his tension, for the walk to the tribunal was silent, even when they were joined by a stern Farren.

Reginald and his retinue had once again occupied the front bench, and Oscar was forced to grit his teeth and take a seat as far from them as possible to prevent himself from doing something very rash. He kept his eyes to the front and his mind on his larger objective. Wamba, as before, gave no indication that he had seen Reginald, and held his head high, making no effort to conceal his marked face, though a few whispers began to run through the crowd as it was noticed. They fell silent when Wamba spoke.

“Please call merchant Alret forward.”

Alret was a tall, lanky man with a thatch of straw blonde hair and a profusion of freckles. Even to Oscar’s eyes, he looked very young. This came as a surprise to Oscar, who had created in his mind an image of the man which bore the same cruel smirk that seemed perpetually fixed on Reginald’s face.

“Merchant Alret,” Wamba said, “as you know, I have for some weeks been examining the matter of the slaves that you purchased in Hereford and conveyed here with the intent to discharge them beyond the authority of the crown. By the evidence that has been provided to me, I am convinced that these thralls, being Christian, were enslaved in direct violation of the king’s decree on slavery.”

Alret shifted nervously, the blood draining quickly from his face as he began to read the intent of Wamba’s speech. Reginald’s reaction was much less subtle, and infinitely more satisfying for Oscar. The smirk slipped at last, giving way to a grimace of absolute rage and a ruddy flush.

“However,” Wamba continued, “you have sworn before this tribunal that you were ignorant of the unjust enslavement of the serfs in question, and in light of your forthright confession, I am prepared to accept your explanation. I trust the loss of the investment that you made will be punishment enough for your crime of eschewing honor in favor of profit. My advice to you is to keep your hands clean of slave trading, Merchant Alret. It is always a messy business, and if you hope to succeed in your future ventures you should place utmost importance on not making an enemy of the crown.”

“Yes, my lord,” Alret stammered. “Of course.”

Reginald fumed, a deadly glare fixed on Wamba.

“As for the serfs,” Wamba said, and he met Reginald’s eyes squarely at last, “as I have been unable to determine their place of origin, they will be relocated to one of the king’s estates where they will work for the benefit of the crown, as they did before. Their collars will be removed. This matter is closed.”

Reginald shot from his seat, staring Wamba down. His guards flanked him. Farren stepped forward at once, placing himself between Reginald and Wamba, who had not moved an inch, but regarded the noble stonily as the crowd watched in shocked silence. Reginald’s hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly, itching, no doubt, to paint Wamba’s other cheek as he had done the first. “You will regret this,” he hissed. Then he turned and stalked from the room, pushing roughly through the doors. Behind him, the hall erupted into a rabble of animated voices.

Wamba swallowed. Then he took up his pen. “What do we have next?”

Oscar fidgeted restlessly for the entirety of the rest of the tribunal, tapping his feet and picking at the splintering wood of the bench beneath him with agitated fingers. He could hardly bear the thought that Reginald could be anywhere, planning anything, while Oscar sat uselessly in the tribunal. By the time the noon bell rang at last, he had earned himself two painful splinters and a stomachache. He jumped up the moment the tribunal was dismissed, fuming the whole way back to the castle.

“He’s going to come after you,” Oscar snapped the moment the door to Wamba’s rooms closed behind them.

“I know, Oscar,” Wamba said, “but what else could I have done? I would not let others suffer because I was too much a coward to face up to my enemies.”

“You could have stalled," Oscar insisted, "waited to see what Reginald was planning before you gave him cause to hate you."

"Every day I delayed was one more day those people had to sit in a locked room, wondering what their fate would be. They deserved to be released from that prison they have done nothing to earn."

"Of course you had to free them,” Oscar sighed, then a thought struck him and he smirked. “You did that. You freed them. You’re a slave, and you freed them from slavery.”

Wamba lifted an eloquent brow. “Poetic as it would be, I fear I must disabuse you of that notion. They were collared illegally. I merely returned them to their former state, which happens to be one of drudgery, so hardly a position to be envied.”

“I doubt they would see it that way,” Oscar insisted.

“Be that as it may, I have no authority to free true slaves of any kind, just as I have no authority over Lord Reginald. His fate is entirely outside my purview.”

“Surely you’re not going to just sit and wait for him to make his move.”

“I will speak to the king tonight, and ensure that he knows what happened. Then he will decide what to do about it. It’s the only way.”

On that point, Oscar silently disagreed. He fetched Wamba a tray from the kitchens, then left him to his writing as he hastened back to the record room. The guards let him pass unchallenged this time, and he entered the cluttered little room to find Clerewald hunched over a manuscript with a pen in one hand and a small glass disc pressed to his eye with the other.

“Good day, sir,” Oscar called.

The old man squinted irritably up at him. “Oh. It’s you.”

“Yes, sir.” Oscar put on what he sincerely hoped was a pleasant smile rather than a desperate one. “You said you had more for me to do today.”

“I suppose I do, at that,” Clerewald creaked, heaving himself from his seat and beckoning Oscar forward. “Come here, lad.”

Oscar followed him back into the forest of shelves. His heart sped when he realized they were pushing into the eastern quarter of the room, the section where the property records were housed. Clerewald pointed to a pile of slender scrolls stacked on a low stool that had been shoved between two bookcases.

“These are reports of significant gains and losses for some of the estates. The official records need to be updated to reflect the changes. Start by opening them and sorting them. Then if you’ve time, you can find the correct records for me to update.”

Sorting the scrolls was simple enough, as each bore the name of the estate and the shire to which it belonged. This task he completed in a matter of an hour, tearing through them until he had surrounded himself with little stacks of vellum. The moment the last scroll landed on its proper pile, he leapt for the shelves, eager to begin his search. He pulled out the first scroll that came to hand and scanned its contents. It was an individual estate record. He slammed it back to the shelf and reached for another, only to find another disappointment. Changing tack, he next grasped a heavy bound volume that stood at the very end of the shelf. A single word, ‘Staffordshire’, was inscribed neatly across the cover.

He flipped it open. Before him was a list of castles, each with the name of its lord recorded clearly beside it. Some lines were crossed out, each castle name reproduced further down the page with a new lord beside it, along with a date. He flipped forward, and found a series of mines. A few more pages, and he was examining a long list of names, each struck through with a bold line. His heart leapt. It was the register of slaves, the vast majority now freed and removed from the record.

With sweaty hands, he rifled through that section of the record book, but the handful of names that were not blacked out were unfamiliar to him, as were the lords that were listed as their owners. Rotherwood was not in Staffordshire, then. He put the book back and reached for the volume in the same position one shelf down. The cover declared it to be of Nottinghamshire. This, too, revealed half dozen slaves, but none of them Wamba.

He shoved it back and reached for the next, only to find his hand resting on an empty patch of wooden shelf, and an icy dread settling in his gut. He pulled out a scroll to identify the county, then hustled back to Clerewald’s table.

“Sir, one of the records is missing.”

“What?” the archivist glared at him suspiciously. “Which one?”

“Derbyshire, I think,” Oscar responded.

“Oh, yes,” Clerewald waved a dismissive hand and turned his attention back to his manuscript. “Don’t mind about that one. It was borrowed earlier.”

“Borrowed?” The ice in Oscar’s gut flooded into his veins. “Who borrowed it?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

“It was Lord Reginald.” Clerewald frowned at him. “Are you quite alright, lad? You’ve gone a bit green.”

Oscar clenched his hands to stop their trembling. It was just as he had feared. While Oscar sat uselessly in the tribunal, Reginald had been collecting the weapon of Wamba’s disgrace.

He swallowed hard and rasped, “I’m sorry, sir. I have to go.”

Oscar was nearly to the door when Clerewald called after him, “The steward didn’t send you, did he?”

Deciding that the old man deserved the truth, after the kindness he had shown him, Oscar turned and answered, “No, sir. He didn’t.”

Clerewald regarded him for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “Well, I don’t mind the company, despite the rumors. If you ever wish to expand your knowledge beyond menial tasks, lad, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you, sir.” Oscar said. “I will come back. I promise.”

“Off with you, then. Go see to your business.”

“Thank you, sir!"

He closed the door respectfully behind him, nodding to the guards. Then he turned and ran.


	31. Chapter 31

Oscar did not stop until he reached Wamba’s chambers, throwing open the door so violently in his haste that it struck the wall and rebounded back toward him. He caught it with one hand, looking frantically around the room. The dinner tray sat untouched on the table, and there was no sign of Wamba. He checked the bedroom, but it, too, was empty.

Breathing hard, he stood in the library and tried to think. At this time of day, there were only a handful of other places Wamba was likely to be. Private audience with the king was possible, but the court was more likely. Oscar allowed himself one more moment to catch his breath before he set off again, this time in the direction of the hall.

The familiar corridors blurred around him, passing as no more than impressions of color and shadow. He sped toward the door to the hall, intent on delivering his warning, only to be stopped short by a heavy arm falling to block his path. “What do you think you’re doing, boy?”

Oscar stumbled back, looking up at the two guards standing between him and the hall. “I have a message for my master Cedric,” he panted. “It’s a matter of urgency.”

“You can’t just barge into the court without a good reason,” the shorter of the two sneered. “I don’t care who your master is.”

“I must speak to him at once! Please!” Oscar implored, knowing that his desperation was showing on his face but uncaring. He would beg on his knees if necessary.

“What could be so important to merit disturbing the king’s court, then?” the second guard asked. He was more staid than his fellow, regarding Oscar seriously.

Oscar scrambled for an explanation, trying to shake a plausible fiction loose from his panic stricken mind. “Something’s been stolen!” he blurted at last. “Something precious to him. He’ll want to know about it at once so he can send someone after the thief.”

“A thief in the castle? That should be reported to the guard captain.”

“I’ll report it, I swear, after I’ve informed my master,” Oscar assured them, “but I must tell him first. Every minute I am delayed increases the chance the thief will get away!”

“All right, boy,” the first guard relented at last, stepping aside. “You go straight to him, mind, and back here right after. Cause any trouble, and I promise you’ll regret it.”

Oscar did not spare him a response. Gasping with relief, he slipped quickly into the hall. He crept around the edge of the room as his gaze wandered the assembled nobles, searching for Wamba’s form. He sidled past the skirts of a group of elegant ladies, craning his neck to peek above their heads, until finally, a flash of familiar gold caught his eye. He quickened his steps, circling a column and bringing Wamba into clear view, his back to Oscar. Then suddenly, the crowd shifted, and Oscar stopped dead. There, just before the king’s dais, the scene he had been dreading for days was playing out.

At the front of the room, Reginald hefted a leather bound tome in one hand as he called to the hall. “My lords! While I am loath to disturb your important discussions, a matter has been brought to my attention that I fear I am compelled to share with you all at once.”

Oscar forced his feet into motion again, carrying him at last to Wamba’s side. “He’s going to expose you,” he hissed into the man’s ear, making him startle. He shot Oscar a quick look.

“I know, Oscar,” Wamba murmured back, squaring his shoulders to regain his composure.

Oscar could manage nothing of the sort. “They’re going to kill you!”

“Yes, I imagine that’s likely,” Wamba said calmly, his eyes following Reginald where he paraded before the dais, the book still raised for all to see.

“What is all this about, Reginald?” called a voice from the crowd. Turning to look, Oscar recognized Wamba’s ally Lord Geoffrey, wearing a disapproving frown at Reginald’s spectacle.

Reginald waved the book at him. “Only this, my lord. I have come to learn that we have amongst us an imposter, welcomed all unknowing by our kind and trusting company, and now revealed for the pretender he is.”

Oscar tugged at Wamba’s arm, whispering urgently, “There’s still time to run. You can hide. Let Lord Ivanhoe sort it out later.”

“No, Oscar,” Wamba said, his words filled with the same blanketing calm that Oscar could see in his eyes. “I would not shame Wilfred so. If this is the end of me, I will face it here.”

“Be sensible!” Oscar pleaded, but Wamba was not looking at him any longer. Instead, he met Reginald’s gaze across the expanse that separated them.

“Well, Cedric?” Reginald sneered. “Can you dispute this accusation?”

Wamba stepped forward, away from Oscar, who dropped his hand and clenched his fists. He watched helplessly as Wamba tilted his head and drawled, “Lord Reginald, is this really necessary? While I understand your urgency to reveal what you evidently believe to be a scandal of great note, you are short on facts. You would do well to thoroughly investigate rumors that come your way before you stake your name to them so openly.”

“So you will not answer my charge?” Reginald insisted.

“How should he answer when you haven’t accused him of anything yet, Reginald?” Geoffrey interjected.

“Then allow me to illuminate you all, my lords, and imagine my shock, that such a trusted post, so close to the ear of the king, should be filled not by a second son of noble blood but…”

“What is going on here?”

Reginald turned, his words gone silent and his arm fallen quickly limp to his side, as from his private door, the king appeared. As one, the people in the hall made their obeisance to their ruler. To Oscar, his stern countenance looked like salvation.

King Richard surveyed the room slowly, taking in the gathered members of the court. His eyes rested for a long moment on Wamba, then returned to Reginald. “Well, Reginald? I am waiting.”

“Your majesty,” Reginald simpered, “I wished only to share with your court a piece of important information that came to my attention.”

“This could only be accomplished by openly challenging my magistrate?” the king asked evenly.

“Sire,” Reginald croaked. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

“Did you not? I would hope that anyone with such vital information about a member of my court would share it first with me. Yet here I find you, making declarations in my hall, inciting discord among my loyal vassals.”

“Deepest apologies, sire,” Reginald bowed his head.

The king continued as if he had not spoken. “Fortunately, you will have a chance to rectify your error. You will share this revelation with me. In my private audience chambers. Come with me.”

Reginald winced, but moved to follow the king with the distinct air of a naughty child facing an unpleasant chastisement. King Richard called over his shoulder, “Cedric, you will join us as well, as this evidently concerns you.”

“Yes, sire,” Wamba called. Oscar immediately clamped a hand onto his arm, refusing to be separated. This earned him a raised brow, but Wamba did not shake him off.

The private audience chambers were just beyond the main hall. The rear wall of the chamber was lined with narrow windows, sconces standing empty between. Decorative tapestries hung along each side, giving the room a close feeling, despite the fact that it held only one piece of furniture, an ornate wooden throne with embroidered cushions in rich red.

The king seated himself on the throne, and beckoned Reginald forward.

“Now, kindly share what news you have found urgent enough to announce to my court without my prior dispensation.”

Reginald looked suspiciously at Wamba, then back to the king, his face settling in a determined scowl. “Your majesty,” he declared, “I have discovered that this man is not what he claims to be. He is not a noble, but a slave, the property of Wilfred of Ivanhoe.”

The king lifted a questioning brow. “Really? That would be quite scandalous, were it true. What proof can you offer to back your claim?”

“Here I have the property record of Derbyshire,” Reginald said, lifting the book again, “which clearly lists the slave Wamba as a part of Ivanhoe’s estate.”

“Wamba?” The king waved a hand in the direction of the man in question. “This man is called Cedric. You claim that this man here and the slave in the register are one and the same?”

“I do, sire,” Reginald said firmly. “He as much as confirmed it.”

“Cedric,” the king turned to Wamba at last, “did you tell this man you were a slave?”

“I did not, sire,” Wamba said softly.

“Then I ask again, Reginald. What proof do you have that this man and the slave are the same?”

Reginald dropped his gaze. “Well. That is. None, sire.”

“I see. You have no proof, but I daresay you thought the accusation would suffice to disgrace my appointed magistrate, who I suspect you have cause to resent for certain decisions that were made in the tribunal.”

“There are those who would swear the Saxon had only one son, your majesty,” Reginald began, only to be cut off once more.

“I do not take kindly to such tactics. I have had enough of backstabbing and scheming from my brother.” He frowned darkly at the cringing noble. “Let me tell you will happen now, Reginald. You will pursue this matter no further. You will quit London, and return to your estate. You will remain there until you are summoned by me. In your stead, as assurance, you will send your son to me here. I will guarantee his safety.”

“Your majesty, if I could just explain,” Reginald tried again, but King Richard was having none of it.

“I have heard enough, Reginald. I will not discuss the matter further. You will not speak of this again. If you have spread this rumor to others, you will ensure their silence as well as your own. Be assured, if I hear so much as a whiff of this talk from this day on, I will hold you responsible. Do we understand one another?”

Reginald swallowed, his sallow face twisted in dismay. He knew he was defeated. “Yes, sire,” he muttered at last.

“Very good. You are dismissed. You no doubt wish to prepare for your journey.” The king waved him casually away. With one last venomous glare at Wamba, the lord took his leave.

Once he had gone, the king turned his gaze next upon Wamba. “What happened to your face?”

Wamba sighed, covering his bruised cheek briefly with his hand. “Lord Reginald took it upon himself to show me my place, sire.”

“He attacked you?”

“He hoped to ensure that I returned his slaves to him. I warned him I would not be swayed, but he persisted. Fortunately, Farren arrived before he could do any real harm.”

Behind him, Oscar scowled. The injury Reginald had done Wamba was still too fresh in his mind to hear Wamba brush it off so easily.

The king just nodded, tapping his fingers on the arm of his throne. “It seems someone has been loose lipped with your secret.”

“Yes, sire,” Wamba nodded.

“You wouldn’t happen to know who it was, would you?”

Wamba shook his head. “I should not like to say, sire.”

“That is not an answer,” the king observed mildly. “Do you know who betrayed your secret or not?”

“I do, sire.”

“Then you will tell me.”

“I believe it was Alard, sire.”

The king’s brows jumped. “You have some evidence of this?”

“Only hearsay” Wamba shook his head, “which is why I preferred not to name him.”

“Whose hearsay?”

“Oscar informed me of it, sire.”

The king’s eyes turned to him for the first time, that stern mien so much more intimidating when it was pinning him to the spot. “Ah, yes. Oscar. I was wondering whether you had some part in this, or merely enjoyed inserting yourself into audiences where you were not invited.”

“He merely informed me of what he had been told, your majesty,” Wamba caught back the king’s attention. “If Alard did indeed set Reginald on my trail, the man only spoke the truth. He revealed nothing of your own knowledge of my deception, or of your household.”

“You are kind to defend him. Regardless, I will speak with him. He is one of a very small number entrusted with certain confidences, and he should be cautioned against speaking so freely.”

“Thank you, sire,” Wamba said.

The king pushed himself to his feet, regarding Wamba critically. “You know, this whole business is getting rather tiresome. We could avoid constructing such complicated pretenses if you would do as I have suggested and simply ask Wilfred for your freedom.”

Wamba bowed his head. “Forgive me, sire. I cannot.”

“Why the devil not?” the king demanded. “You know he would grant it to you in an instant.”

“Yet that he does not means he has some reason for keeping me as I am. I would not question his judgment.”

“Well I would,” Richard said irritably. “That he challenges my authority in this, of all things, baffles me no end.”

The corner of Wamba’s mouth lifted in a tentative smile. “If you wish to express your displeasure to him, your majesty, I would certainly be in no position to object.”

King Richard scoffed. “No, I have learned well enough that I do not comprehend the intricacies of your entanglements as wholly as I would like to think. I will let it be, for now, but have a care to be more cautious in future, and for pity’s sake tell me before it gets this far again. I would be most displeased if I had to replace you.”

Once they were dismissed, Oscar wasted no time dragging Wamba away from the hall. He was practically skipping with the lightness of his relief, chattering and laughing the whole way. Wamba smiled at his antics, letting himself be pulled along by one hand.

Back in their chambers, Oscar offered to fetch supper, but Wamba gave him a mischievous grin and said conspiratorially, “I’ve got a better idea.”

He disappeared into his bedroom and emerged momentarily in his simple tunic, robes of the magistrate nowhere to be seen. He smiled at Oscar and as he led him through the corridors to the kitchens, looking as young as Oscar had ever seen him. In the hectic bustle of the supper preparations, they wove their way through the teeming servants, snatching up warm rolls and fresh sausages with their fingers. No one paid them the least bit of attention. Oscar watched, astonished, as Wamba tucked a small wheel of cheese into his sleeve while the head cook's back was turned. Then, catching on, Oscar scooped up a cluster of grapes and dropped it down his shirt. Wamba laughed into his free hand, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing the attention of the maids dressing a side of beef.

Wamba and Oscar quickly made off with their bounty before they were challenged, escaping through the garden door into the creeping cool of the late summer evening. They fell to the ground in the shadow of the wall, unable to contain their laughter any longer. They leaned on another for support, their shoulders touching in a bright spot of warmth that suffused Oscar with happiness.

When they finally sobered, Wamba pulled a jug of ale from his belt, dropping the bread and cheese beside it while Oscar laid out the sausages and set about retrieving the grapes. Watching him fish down the neck of his tunic set Wamba off again, and he leaned back against the wall, helpless with mirth.

Oscar grinned delightedly as he surveyed their pilfered spread. For the first time in ages, the food looked tempting. Wamba broke the bread, offering him half with a fond smile, and they set to with a will, passing the ale between them, until their bellies were full and they collapsed back against the cool stone of the wall in contented lethargy.

"So why have I been fetching your meals when you're perfectly capable of choosing the best bits for yourself?" Oscar asked at last, letting his head loll to the side.

"As I said, Oscar," Wamba smirked, "it is about choosing battled that can be won." He licked a smudge of grease from his long fingers. "If I cannot win by asking, then I suppose I must win by knavery."

Oscar laughed. In the warm light of evening, under a pale pink sky and with Wamba beside him, his heart ached with a force of love that made his lungs tremble.

Reginald was defeated, and there was time now. Time to dedicate himself to changing Wamba’s mind. Time to demonstrate how stubborn and steadfast he could be. Time to prove that Wamba would not be displaced in his affections.

In time, he would win Wamba's heart. For now, he raised their jug in an easy salute, and savored the moment.


	32. Chapter 32

As the last of summer faded into the chill rains of autumn and the leaves began to turn, Oscar found his life settling into a comfortable routine.

The day after the confrontation, with Gregory’s help, he had retrieved the Derbyshire record from Reginald’s empty chambers and returned it to a grateful Clerewald. In exchange, the old man offered him a slim volume containing a reference of all the shires of England, their size, location, landmarks, and other facts of note. With it came strict instructions to return once he had read it. So he began to be slowly educated on the history of England and her noble houses, spending an afternoon here and there with Clerewald, asking him questions and trading each borrowed book for another.

The first time Wamba caught him reading one, seated on the floor before the fire, he was forced to divulge the whole tale of how he had come to befriend the archivist. His cheeks burned like banked coals as he described his plan to find the register before Reginald and the subterfuge he had employed to gain entry to the archive. Wamba seated himself on the couch, close to Oscar’s side, regarding him strangely as he listened.

“You realize that only the highest ranked nobles have leave to enter that room without written permission? You could have gotten into more trouble for sneaking into the archive than the counting room.”

“I just wanted to find the record before Reginald did.” Oscar ducked his head, avoiding Wamba’s gaze and bracing himself for a reprimand. He was startled when a gentle hand came to rest on his crown instead.

“Thank you, Oscar.” The familiar words, spoken so softly, made him shiver and flush even hotter. He leaned his head against Wamba’s knee beside him, and grinned uncontrollably where the man could not see. After that, he shared his books and his questions with Wamba as well, at least until he became distracted by the return of Ivanhoe to London and was called frequently to council.

The evenings he did not spend with Wamba, Oscar passed with his friends in the stables or the cellars. He had feared his relationship with Gregory might be strained after the incident with his father and Reginald, but once he sought the other boy out for a frank discussion, they became much closer friends, an understanding between them that had not been there before. Emma, of course, loudly protested their new alliance. It put her at a disadvantage, especially once Margaret began bringing her young stable hand, a pleasant and unassuming boy named Clement, to their gatherings as well.

Thus the autumn passed much more peacefully than the summer before it, and before he knew it, Oscar woke one morning to find his breath on the air and the windows white with crystalline rime. This was a signal to the court that it was time to prepare for the winter. After the first frost, the lords and ladies with more remote estates began to flow from the city in a steady stream, bound for their distant homes where they would pass the snows and see to their affairs before returning in the spring. The castle grew darker, quieter, and more peaceful with each passing day, entire wings shuttered for their annual hibernation.

Then, just as the days were at their shortest, the castle burst to life again with the preparations for the Christmas feast. Great barrels of wine, dozens of hens and hogs were carted into the kitchens, where the roasting fires roared day and night. Oscar, darting into the fray to fetch breakfast, caught sight of whole trays of minced venison pies, plum puddings, and fanciful marzipan sweets taking shape beneath a hundred pairs of frantically working hands. Just the memory made his mouth water all day.

While Wamba set off to the feast in the hall, Oscar and his friends rushed to claim seats at the servants’ dinner in the kitchens. He was amazed at the sight of such extravagance, the hams and haunches of venison nestled between humble pies and squat tureens of stewed vegetables in thick gravy. They even had their own hogshead to share. Oscar ate until his stomach threatened to burst, then sat back to enjoy the evening, drinking deep of the rich wine as well as the company.

He was filled with an immense sense of wellbeing and giggling quietly to himself when he finally found his way back to Wamba’s chambers late in the night. To his surprise, the fire in the library was roaring. He squinted a bit, bringing the shadowy form on the couch into focus.

“Wamba!” he cried happily, stumbling across the rug. He plopped down in the space beside the man, smiling foolishly at him. “You’re back!”

“As are you,” Wamba observed, “and quite enjoying the wine, I see.” His eyes sparkled with amusement, a soft smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“Don’t mock me,” Oscar moaned piteously. “I had to drink my share. They said so.” Giving in to the weight of the invisible yoke that settled suddenly about his shoulders, he toppled over onto his side, pillowing his head in Wamba’s lap. He hummed happily, letting his heavy eyelids slide lower.

“Quite.” Just lightly, after a long moment, he felt Wamba’s hand fall to rest on his shoulder. “If you can stomach a little more, I’ve brought something I think you might enjoy.”

That was enough to make Oscar’s eyes fly open and his muscles discover the strength to push him upright. “You brought me a gift?” he asked eagerly.

Wamba blushed a bit. “I don’t have money to give you something proper, unfortunately,” he said, “but if you could be content with what I was able to beg, I think we might call it a gift.”

He waved his hand at the low table before them, where a small platter that had entirely escaped Oscar’s notice sat waiting. He leaned down to get a better look. The carafe gave off a lovely aroma of cloves and other spices he could not name, mingled with the familiar sharp bite of heated wine. The shallow bowl beside it held a dozen or so small golden discs, like fat coins, submerged in a gleaming bath of syrup.

“What are they?”

“Apricots,” Wamba told him, “preserved in honey.”

“Can I try one?”

“Of course,” Wamba smiled, reaching for the carafe and pouring each of them a measure of the mulled wine. Oscar reached out, dipping down to fish out an apricot. He carried it quickly to his mouth, sucking on his fingers to catch all of the precious honey. The bright flavor of the fruit burst across his tongue, making him moan.

Wamba laughed. “I take it you like them.”

Oscar just nodded, reaching quickly for another. He gobbled it down greedily, licking his lips. Wamba offered him a goblet, which he sampled as eagerly as he had the apricots.

His eyebrows lifted as the aromas saturated his senses. Overlaying the tang of the wine was an earthy spiciness that seemed billow out across his entire head. “Oh,” he gasped delightedly. “What is that?”

“Cinnamon,” Wamba smiled, pleased. “It’s quite rare, but there was some on hand this year.”

“Thank you,” Oscar said earnestly.

In return, Wamba held out his own cup, tapping the brim against Oscar’s. “Cheers, Oscar.”

Oscar smiled helplessly, and badgered Wamba into eating one of the apricots, over his protests. The wine they finished between them, slumped side by side on the couch.

“Only a month left now,” Wamba remarked quietly, staring at the fire.

It took Oscar a long moment to realize what he meant. “Oh! My sentence.”

“Yes,” Wamba said. “Just a few more weeks, and you’ll be free to go out into the world again.”

“Only a few more weeks,” Oscar parroted, and wondered why that thought left him feeling bereft.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

In the end, a month was much briefer than Oscar thought it to be. Perhaps it was how easily the cold, sleepy days of winter in the castle bled together, but it seemed he had hardly blinked before he woke one morning to find Wamba waiting for him with breakfast and a smile.

“What’s going on?” he asked at once, looking suspiciously at the food. It was his job to bring up their morning repast, and finding the task completed was unexpectedly irksome.

“Congratulations, Oscar,” Wamba said, completely ignoring his question.

“For what?”

“Don’t you remember?” Wamba tilted his head quizzically. “Yesterday was the last day of your sentence. As of today, you are once again a free man.”

Oscar gaped at him, blindsided. “Really?”

“Yes,” Wamba said. He slipped a folded letter from his desk, offering it to Oscar. “Your pardon from the king. This will let the guards know to give you passage of the gate.”

Haltingly, Oscar reached out for the letter, the dry parchment rasping between his fingers. He ran a finger along the edge, tapping at the sharp point, testing to see if it would rouse him from his dream. When nothing happened, he looked up at Wamba, and felt a smile blossom.

“I’m free,” he whispered.

“You are,” Wamba nodded, an answering smile on his face.

“I meant to take the washing to the laundry,” Oscar remembered suddenly.

“No matter,” Wamba said gently. “That is not your concern today. You should at least eat, though, before you go.”

Oscar felt oddly removed from his body as he took his seat, his reality shifted so suddenly that his mind was struggling to catch up. He ate his plain porridge, noting absently that Wamba was still reliably terrible at procuring his own meals.

“Where will you go first?” Wamba asked, drawing Oscar back from his distant contemplation of his bowl.

“I don’t know.” He looked up. “To Emmett, I suppose.”

“He will be happy to see you,” Wamba replied lightly. He looked away for a long moment, spoon hovering doubtfully in the air. Then he dropped the spoon and stood with a decisive air. “Now, I must be off, and so must you.”

Oscar obediently left his porridge to pull on his boots. He wrapped his scarf about his neck snugly, making for the door.

“Will you be alright?” Oscar asked suddenly, turning back.

Wamba gave him the fond smile he had come to cherish, setting his skin tingling. “Yes, Oscar. I’ll be fine.”

He looked back, just once more, as he closed the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

Wamba was still smiling, watching him go. “Be well, Oscar.”

The thump of the door snapped the tension in him at last. With a whoop, he set off at a run through the corridors, a growing elation bubbling madly within his chest, bursting at last into the crisp frozen morning. Before him, across the courtyard, the great gate stood solid as it always had, a forbidding sentry barring Oscar from the world outside for so long, but no longer. His heart began to pound heavily as he approached, his hand straying into his pocket to clutch at the scrap of parchment that was his key to unlock his prison at last.

The royal guard at the gate watched him approach with a bored expression. He proffered the somewhat crumpled note, wiping his sweating palms on his tunic after the guard took it. The tall man read it quickly, glanced up at him and back to the note. Then he tucked the parchment into his own pocket and swung open the door at his back.

“Go on, then.” He waved his pike at the opening.

With that indifferent sendoff, Oscar stepped forward and emerged into the early morning bustle of the city. He stumbled over a stone, mere paces from the gate, but righted himself with a laugh, drinking in the sight of the frosted river, walls of the castle behind him and the whole world waiting before him. Compared to the slow quiet of the castle, the streets of London were teeming with activity. As he walked, he gazed fondly at the market stalls with their humble loaves and dull array of root vegetables on offer. A woman wrapped in a billowing woolen scarf strode past him, a string of equally bundled children straggling along in her wake like ducklings. An old white-haired man sat on a derelict wooden bench, smoking a long pipe and watching him as he passed.

The further he walked, the more Oscar's elation faded into a vague discomfort. He felt oddly out of place, slightly off kilter, like a visitor rather than a man coming home. He shook it off, and carried on toward Emmett’s house, confident that the sight of home would cure his malaise. His brother, of course, was delighted to see him, which he demonstrated through a protracted bout of suffocating hugs and back slapping that left Oscar quite winded.

“I missed you, too,” he gasped, extricating himself at last from his brother’s embrace.

“I was half convinced you’d done something to make them execute you after all,” Emmett teased him, tugging off Oscar’s scarf and shoving him into a chair. Oscar swatted his hands away, warming quickly under his brother’s usual brand of affectionate violence.

“I’m quite reformed,” Oscar said piously, “and you should have more faith in your own brother.”

“Ah, but it is because you are my brother that I know you so well. Go on, admit it. You caused more than your share of trouble.”

That led to a retelling of the conflict with Reginald, carefully edited to remove any mention of Wamba’s status. Encouraged by Emmett's curiosity, he fell naturally into a discussion of Gregory, Emma and the other friends he had made. Emmett smiled and laughed at the tales of their antics, pleased that his brother had found worthy companions. They talked until Mary returned from the market around noon, and he was shocked to find her much rounder than he remembered.

“You’re pregnant!” he exclaimed, hugging her carefully around her swollen belly.

“Nearly ready to pop!” Mary agreed, rubbing at the gentle curve where the baby rested and smiling at her husband, who was grinning proudly as he placed an arm around her shoulders.

She, of course, wanted to know everything that had happened, so Oscar recounted again what he had told Emmett already while she cooked, and received a lengthy description of the ups and downs of her pregnancy in return. They had begun making preparations for the baby, and she proudly showed him the beautiful cradle that Emmett had fashioned from the wood that he used in his trade.

As they sat down to eat, the strange feeling of detachment began to creep back over him. It had been kept at bay at first by the happiness at being reunited with his family, but as the afternoon wore on, he was swamped by the realization of all that happened while he was away. The many ways the world had moved on without him. Mary’s belly was just one piece of that picture, but it was an important one. With a child on the way, possibly more to follow, it seemed there would be little place for Oscar. He pushed these thoughts back, concentrating on the comfort of being in these familiar surroundings. He helped Mary wash the cooking pot and bowls. Then he set off to make one more visit.

The Gull and Anvil was just as he remembered it. He smiled up at the worn tavern sign, swinging gently above the lantern that cast a welcoming pool of light around the entrance.

He bypassed the front, making his way around side instead. The familiar door opened as easily as he remembered under his hand, creaking gently on its hinges. He pushed it closed behind him, sighing as the familiar atmosphere of the tavern engulfed him. He snaked his way between the barrels of ale and wine toward the light spilling in front room of the tavern.

Just beyond, he finally found what he sought. Cara stood at the bar, lining up full tankards of ale for an impatient looking man standing on the other side.

He waited for the man to take his ale and leave before he slipped up behind her, and clapped his hands over her eyes.

“Get off!” she snarled, throwing a vicious elbow that caught him in the ribs with a sharp burst of pain. He cursed and dropped his hands.

Cara flew around, staring at him in shock where he was doubled over with a hand clutching at his injured side.

“Oscar!” she gasped.

Oscar fought and failed to keep the foolish grin from his face, so happy was he to see her in the flesh again. She could have stepped from his memory of their last meeting, so familiar was her wide-eyed surprise and dark green dress. He ducked just in time to avoid the swat of the rag she shot in his direction.

“You idiot!”

“What? Not happy to see me?”

“I thought you were dead!” she shrieked, drawing the attention of the patrons of the tavern, which she quickly realized. She shoved him backward into the storeroom.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her eyes sparkling suspiciously in the dim light.

“Didn’t Emmett tell you where I was?”

“No he did not,” Cara snapped, “and I don’t have time to listen to you now. I need to get back to work. You can wait here, or your can bugger off back to wherever you’ve been for the last year.”

Deflated, Oscar watched her leave, then slumped down on the floor with his back to a barrel of wine. In all the months since he had seen her, it had not occurred to him that Cara might not know what had happened. He was unprepared for her anger, but he owed her an explanation. So he sat in the storeroom, growing steadily colder as the night wore on. When the front room finally grew quiet, and Oscar heard the sound of the heavy bolt in the main door being thrown, he stood and shook out his stiff limbs, rubbing briskly at his own arms to warm them. Cara still did not appear, though long minutes passed.

Finally, Oscar gathered himself to venture out of the storeroom. Cara was slumped over the bar, her head in her hands. He looked her over properly, and for the first time took note of the changes that time had wrought in her appearance. Her shift was frayed around the edges, her kerchief patched and hands covered in scrapes and cuts. He reached out a tentative hand, placing it gently on her shoulder, wary of another elbow. She shuddered under his touch, tilting her head and fixing him with one red-rimmed eye in a haunted face.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

It was the right thing to say. She turned at once, throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him fiercely. Her eyelashes brushed against his throat, wet with tears.

“Where were you?” she whispered. “I needed you.”

“I know,” he murmured, gripping her tightly. “I’m sorry. I was arrested. I should have listened to you.”

“Arrested?” she pushed back enough to frown up at him. “Were you stealing?”

“I thought I could get the money you needed. I was wrong.”

Cara wanted to know everything, of course. She pulled him around the bar to the benches before the guttering fire. They sat side by side while he recounted the whole tale again, from the last day he saw her to that very morning. She listened quietly, watching him intently as he talked, her eyes growing sad. When he finally fell silent, she reached out and took his hand.

“You love him, don’t you?”

Oscar started. “What?” he squeaked. It was the last thing he had expected her to say.

“Cedric. You love him. I can tell by the way you talk about him.” He dropped his eyes to avoid her knowing gaze. “It’s alright, Oscar. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he began, and suddenly it was all spilling out of him, his ill-advised confession, the gentle refusal, the endless mire of frustrated longing. Throughout, she held his hand in hers, brushing her fingers along his knuckles in a comforting caress. She was the first person he had told, the only person he trusted enough to tell, and when he was finished an immense weight had lifted from his chest.

"You must promise not to tell anyone," he said.

"Of course not. What do you take me for?"

“What about you?” he asked, realizing belatedly that she had spent ages listening to him talk, while he knew nothing of what had happened to her in his absence.

She shrugged. “My uncle took the tavern. He let me stay on to tend the bar,” she said simply.

“I’m sorry. I truly believed we could save it.”

“It is saved, after a fashion,” Cara said. “My uncle was generous to let me stay. He could have thrown me out. I half expected him to, after the fight I put up. Instead, he sends his man to collect the earnings every week, and I have a few girls to help me, all chosen by him. They're spying on me, no doubt, making sure I don't skim any of the coin.”

“I wish I could have been here with you,” he said, clasping her hand in his in turn. "If nothing else, you deserved that."

They sat quietly for a long moment, contemplating the glowing embers of the fire.

“I think your magistrate must love you as well,” Cara said.

He turned to give her a questioning look. “What? Why?”

“How could anyone not?” she said. Then she kissed him.

Her lips were soft and slightly moist, pressed gently against his own stunned mouth. Before he could react, she had pulled away.

“What was that for?” he asked quietly.

“I wanted to,” she said. With a little smile, she kissed him again, and this time he responded, opening his mouth and teasing at her lips with his tongue. She pushed her own out to meet him, sweet and slick. His body was responding almost without his permission, his skin growing hot and his loins enflamed after so long neglected. They parted on a gasp. He stared at Cara, her kiss-swollen lips glistening in the firelight and eyes darkening, her dress doing little to camouflage the rise and fall of her breasts, painted gold by the firelight. This was a side of her he had never seen before, but a glance at her eyes revealed his friend was still there, familiar and comforting.

Intrigued, he brushed his fingers along the gentle curve of her shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked quietly.

“Do I need to draw you a picture?”

“I’ve never done this before,” he confessed.

“I know.”

He frowned. “You have?”

She pulled away from him, frowning at the hearth. “Not often.”

“Who?” he asked, a protective anger making his fist clench.

“Customers,” she said.

“Does your uncle make you?”

She glanced at him, and away. “It was just a few, and I kept the money.”

“Cara,” he started, but she shushed him with a finger across his lips. She followed it with her mouth. Gradually, he relaxed into the kiss again, letting her set the pace. Her hand slipped up under his tunic, rubbing at his belly above the edge of his trousers. She broke the kiss, and smiled invitingly.

“Come on. You can practice with me. That way you’ll know what you’re doing when you finally get your dashing magistrate into bed.”

Oscar had very little resistance left, but he had the presence of mind to ask, “What about you?”

Her smile faded a little. She pulled her hand away. “Maybe I want to know what it feels like with someone I care about,” she said.

He swallowed, considering. Then he nodded.

“Show me what to do.”

She smiled, and took his hand, and led him to her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic consensual m/f sex. Both parties are 16.


	34. Chapter 34

In the morning light, the world looked new to Oscar.

He woke with Cara pressed close and warm to his side, in her familiar bed under the low rafters, where they had slept so many times as chaste as brother and sister. He could not say that any longer.

He extricated himself carefully from the bed, tucking the woolen blankets around her shoulders to ward off the chill of morning, brushing her auburn hair gently back from her face before he wandered down to the main floor of the tavern. He marveled at the clarity of the light, the bite of the cold air in his lungs, and the new awareness of his body as he moved.

Whistling quietly to himself, he rummaged in the cupboards below the bar for breakfast. He found a hard loaf, a few days old at least, and a thin rind of cheese. Undeterred by the humble nature of his spoils, he set to laying the fire and building it to a healthy blaze, while he skewered the bread on a poker. It was a matter of minutes to toast the bread nicely, melting the cheese atop it. He was sliding the last piece carefully off of the poker with his fingertips when he heard the shuffle of feet behind him, and turned to find Cara awake and wrapped in a large gray shawl over her shift, her curls spilled madly about her shoulders.

Oscar smiled. “Breakfast?” He held out the freshly toasted bread and she took it, coming to sit by his side without saying a word.

“How are you?” he asked, tearing into his own share of the bread.

She smiled, and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I feel good, Oscar. Thank you.”

He flushed, hearing the intent behind her words. “You don’t have to thank me. If anything, it should be the other way around.”

She shoved him playfully in the side. “You're right. You should be grateful. I’m much too good for you.”

Oscar rammed the last of his crust into his mouth, and used his newly freed hands to attack her vulnerable sides with squirming fingers. She shrieked and batted at him until he relented.

“Villain!” she gasped, scuttling away from him on the bench.

He shrugged, grinning. “You knew that well before you invited me to your bed.”

“Yes, well, I shall have care to make wiser choices in future,” she sniffed, though the attempted humor fell flat between them.

Carefully, Oscar took up the poker again and prodded at the fire. He remembered her small hands on his body, the feel of her softness pressed against him, and he thought it might be not so terrible a life. In time, that sense that something was missing, that the details were not quite right, would fade. The logs shifted with a rasping clatter.

“I could stay,” he said. “If you want me to.” He took a shaky breath, waiting for the words that would seal his fate.

A gentle hand gripped his wrist, and he looked up into understanding green eyes. “That’s not what you want.”

Oscar swallowed around the lump in his throat. Impulsively, he reached out and wrapped her in his arms, hugging her tight. “If you ever need anything," he vowed, "anything at all that I can give, you only have to ask.”

Cara pushed him back. She looked into his eyes for a long moment, searching for something. Then she laughed, a sad sound accompanied by a rueful smile.

“I wish it could have been you, Oscar. I really do. But you weren’t meant for me.”

He pulled her back into a hug, and she returned it just as fiercely. She wiped surreptitiously at her eyes when she pulled away. Oscar pretended not to notice.

By the time they had said their goodbyes, the sun was nearing its zenith, and Oscar turned his steps with purpose to the castle.

He took care to step around the muddy stone that had deceived him on his exit and approached the gate with a light, bouncing gait. He raised a hand in a brief salute to the helmeted soldier there as he moved past, only to run flat into the stout haft of the guard’s ax. Knocked back a pace, he rubbed peevishly at the sore line of discomfort the weapon had left across his chest. “What do you mean by that, then?”

“What is your business here?” demanded the guard, eyes fixed straight ahead.

A dark, affronted flush rose in Oscar’s cheeks. “My business? You wish to know my business? It is merely this. I live here!”

“Produce your papers.” The soldier turned his head to look down at Oscar, who felt suddenly very short and foolish. Thinking back, he realized he had before never left the castle other than in the company of Wamba himself. His fists clenched as his anger abruptly shifted toward his own careless error. He sighed. “Is Farren in the garrison today?”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “The captain is in attendance at the tribunal until noon.”

Again, Oscar cursed his own stupidity. Of course Farren would be at the tribunal. Wamba, as well. He had no way to prove to this stubborn novice that he was who he claimed to be. He glanced up at the sun, high above the castle. It was already noon, or nearly so. Even if he ran to the tribunal, he would have to go all the way around the castle’s outer wall. He would never arrive before Wamba departed. He decided he had no choice but to await Farren’s return, and he told his obstacle so.

“Look here, lad,” the soldier snapped. “You can’t loiter about the gate all day because you can name the guard captain. Either produce your papers or get away from the castle!”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed and his body tensed, prepared to take up the challenge. “I will not be turned around on your order!” he growled. “I work for Cedric, and until you permit me to return to my duties, I will stay here in this precise spot and wait for Farren!” His voice rose to a shout.

“You will do as I say or you will find yourself in the dungeon, boy!” The guard stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of his tunic, pulling Oscar up to bellow directly into his face.

“It wouldn’t be the first time!” He kicked out at his assailant’s shins, scoring a blow that caused the large man to curse and drop him. He landed on his rump in the mud. Baring his teeth and clenching his fists, he prepared to fling himself back at the cursing soldier, when a hoarse, breathless voice filtered down from above the scuffle.

“Oscar! What on earth are you doing?”

He looked up to see Wamba, pale and winded, staring at him from atop the wall. The shouting must have brought him hurrying up to the parapet. Oscar grinned. “This clod refuses to let me in! I told him that I live here, but he does nothing but shout and flail about!”

Farren had appeared beside Wamba now. He stood silently, observing the exchange.

“Oscar, you…” Wamba’s voice abruptly failed him. He leaned against the gray stone, coughing fitfully for a moment, then waved a hand to indicate that Oscar should wait for him where he was. He disappeared, and emerged a few moments later from the gate, Farren standing protective as ever behind him. The guard who had challenged Oscar had turned a sickly shade of gray, shocked at the sudden appearance of a magistrate in his robes of office. He stood stiffly to attention beside Farren as Wamba approached Oscar. The boy smirked at him, but his levity died when he turned and saw that Wamba’s expression was far from amused. Tucking his hands into the sleeves, Wamba tilted his head to one side and asked, “Are you hurt?”

Oscar quickly brushed what dirt he could from his clothing, noting the tears in the fabric and realizing what a disheveled figure he must present. “No.” He smiled sheepishly. “It is mended easily enough. Can we go inside now?”

He was surprised to see a frown appear on Wamba’s face. “Oscar, your sentence here is finished. You are free to go where you wish.”

Oscar’s brows drew together in confusion. “Anywhere I wish but here, you mean?”

“No, of course not,” Wamba murmured. “You are welcome here, but surely there are many things that await you elsewhere.”

Oscar looked closely at Wamba for the first time, taking note of the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes and mouth, and the dark shadows attesting to a sleepless night.

“If you have need of anything, I am always happy to assist you,” Wamba continued. “My friendship is yours without obligation.”

“You thought I wasn’t coming back,” Oscar said, with utter certainty.

Wamba looked away. “There is no reason for you to be here when you may do as you please.”

The resignation in those words made Oscar cringe. It was clear enough now what the shadows on Wamba’s face meant. He had not expected Oscar to return, possibly ever, and the sudden loss had struck him so deeply that he had been unable to sleep. Oscar found himself wondering suddenly if Wamba had bothered to eat, and at once he wanted nothing more than to force the pale man, who had smiled as he watched Oscar leave for what he believed the last time, back to his chamber to rest.

Cara had known. So, he suspected, had Emmett. Caring for Wamba was his domain, the only thing he knew with absolute certainty that he could do better than anyone else, and he had no intention of leaving that post for any reason.

“I want to be here. Who do you expect will see that you don’t waste away completely without me?” His jaw set into stubborn determination, prepared to fight Wamba’s objections. Instead, he found himself the recipient of a smile so sweet he thought his heart would break.

“As you wish.” Wamba’s voice was warm and thick as honey. “We must first petition the king, and see what compensation he might grant you.”

Oscar had not even considered that he would need the king’s permission to remain with Wamba, or that he might expect some increased status. “Compensation?”

Wamba smiled, amusement in his quirked brow. “Certainly. You are no longer a prisoner here. You should earn an appropriate wage for your labors.”

The smile was infectious. Oscar could not contain a little whoop of joy as he slung his arm through Wamba’s, and guided his laughing magistrate toward the castle and rest.

He shot Farren a little grin as he passed, and for the first time he could remember, he saw the big man smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Part Two


	35. Chapter 35

“So you think yourself worthy of a position in the royal household, do you?”

Oscar forced himself not to shrink under King Richard’s measuring stare. He had not been cowed when forced to his knees before the royal court. He would certainly not quail now. Instead, he pushed out his jaw in a pugnacious scowl.

“I don’t care about the royal household. I want to work for Wamba.”

“You’re quite combative for one begging favors of his sovereign.” The king sat back in his chair behind the great table in his study, steepling his fingers before him. “You do know that I still have the power to have you executed, don’t you?”

Oscar swallowed, but did not lower his eyes. The king watched him for a long moment in silence, letting the tension stretch. Then he shrugged.

“Regardless, you cannot work for Wamba.”

“What?” Oscar yelped. “He said I could stay.”

“Yes, and then he brought you to me,” King Richard said. “Did you wonder why?”

Oscar shook his head, frowning.

“Then allow me to educate you. You cannot work for Wamba because he has no means to employ you. He cannot pay your wages. He has no coin of his own.”

A hollow pit opened in Oscar’s stomach.

“Wamba is currently in my charge,” the king continued, “and therefore to remain with him you must work for me.”

“Are you going to let me stay?” Oscar forced out past his tightening throat. “Sire?” he added belatedly.

The king gave him a darkly satisfied smirk. “I see you’ve discovered your manners at last.”

Another long silence stretched between them, while Oscar dug his nails into the soft meat of his palms and forced himself to wait, dreading an answer that would see him thrown out of the castle as suddenly as he had first come.

At last, the king nodded. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I think I will. Despite all odds, I suspect you have been good for him.”

“Really?” Oscar gasped.

The king raised a brow at him.

“I mean, thank you, sire.” Oscar hastily corrected himself.

“That’s better.” King Richard leaned forward and took up his quill and began to scribble a hasty note on a scrap of parchment. “I think a shilling is fair, to start. You can collect it each month from the steward. For this, your sole task will be to look after Wamba, his purse as well as his person.”

Oscar shook off the shock of being promised such a generous wage and frowned. “I thought you said Wamba didn’t have any coin.”

“He does not have his own, that is true, but he does have leave to use a portion of what he earns for Wilfred to see to his own needs.” The king made one last mark on the slip of parchment and waved Oscar forward to take it. “Alard oversees all of that, but you will need to speak first to Farren. He has responsibility for it now.”

“So I’m to be his handler?” Oscar bristled at the thought that Wamba was not trusted to manage his own purse, when he was trusted with much greater matters than that, and his resentment at the way Ivanhoe kept his slave reared its head yet again.

“Yes, precisely,” said King Richard, giving Oscar a meaningful look. “Take care to be diligent in your duties.”

Wamba was waiting for him outside the door when he finally emerged. He looked Oscar up and down. “You appear relatively unscathed,” he remarked lightly.

Oscar could not help but smile, rattled as he felt. He showed Wamba the parchment. “I am officially a servant of the royal household.”

“Well done,” Wamba congratulated him warmly.

“I’ve instructions to speak to Farren and to the steward.”

“You’d best do as you were told, then,” Wamba said. “You know where to find me when your errands are done.”

“Yes,” Oscar nodded. “I’ll see you later.”

Farren was unruffled by the news that Oscar would be usurping his duties where Wamba’s care was concerned, taking it calmly in stride as he did nearly everything else. He merely bid Oscar follow him into the garrison, where as captain he had a small low-ceilinged room for his personal use. The big soldier pulled a worn leather purse from a wooden chest on the table and offered it to Oscar.

“Take care to point out when he needs something,” he instructed Oscar, “and don’t be timid about it. He can be intractable as an old mule about spending Lord Wilfred’s money.”

Oscar glanced into the purse to find a few shillings and a handful of pennies.

“When you’ve used that up, ask Alard and he’ll count out more for you,” Farren continued. “Whatever you spend, keep proof, and never buy what you can requisition within the keep.”

Oscar tied the strings of the purse tightly and secured it to his belt. “I’ll be careful,” he said.

“See that you are,” Farren said sternly.

Alard’s advice was similar, if much less friendly. His hooked nose, more pronounced even than Gregory’s, wrinkled in disgust as if recoiling from a foul smell the moment Oscar stepped into his office, and remained so as he read the king’s directive. For Oscar’s part, he forced himself to remain calm and speak slowly, swallowing down his lingering anger at the man whose petty resentment had nearly led to Wamba’s ruin. The steward did not appear to notice.

“I am sure I do not know what the king was thinking, taking you on,” he sneered. “As you are here, however, you will abide by the rules of this house.”

Oscar gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“You will come here on the first day of every month and give an accounting of what has been spent. The slave’s board is part of the agreement with Rotherwood. He should have little reason to spend his master's coin. I am very accurate in my record keeping, boy. Everything is reported back to Lord Ivanhoe, and I will not tolerate frivolities. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Oscar ground out.

“Then get out,” Alard waved him off, and he made a quick exit before his temper got the better of him, congratulating himself grimly for his restraint.

His sour mood lasted only as long as it took to return to Wamba’s chambers, where he was met with a bright smile that instantly lightened his heart. Wamba was still visibly tired, but he was also quite unmistakably happy. He laughed as Oscar pulled him to his feet and away from his papers to settle him on the couch with a mug of warm wine, watching the pale man's eyelids droop and his limbs loosen as the tension drained from his body at last.

It was little surprise, then, to return from fetching supper to find Wamba deep in slumber on the couch. Oscar set their tray down quietly on the table and took a seat on the floor with his back to the fire, where he could study Wamba’s sleeping face in the flickering light. Untroubled for once by nightmares, he looked very young with his hands tucked beneath his chin and his lips parted. Entranced, Oscar let himself stare and savored the tender feelings of protectiveness that stirred helplessly within him.

Carefully, he pulled the purse from his belt and fingered the worn leather with a little smile. Wamba was his now, in a sense. His to protect, by order of the king himself. It was better even than what he had hoped for, and not a duty he meant to take lightly.

He could not say how long he sat there, but eventually a log cracked sharply in the collapsing fire, and Wamba’s eyes fluttered open, shattering the spell that had fallen over them. Wamba rubbed at his face with one hand and sat up, taking stock of the food on the table and Oscar on the floor.

“I've kept you waiting,” he said softly.

“That's alright,” Oscar said. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”


	36. Chapter 36

The next night he went to the stables to find his friends and tell them the news.

“That’s marvelous!” Emma shrieked happily and squeezed him breathless when she heard. “It was sure to be dull as a Sunday sermon around here without you.”

Margaret, cuddled in a pile of hay with Clement, giggled at the sight, while Gregory pointedly rolled his eyes. “I can hardly believe the king let you stay, considering all the trouble you’ve caused,” he remarked snidely, a little smirk betraying the challenge.

“You know,” Oscar rejoined airily, “you father said much the same thing to me when he heard.”

Gregory scoffed, bested, while Emma chortled madly beside him, clutching at Oscar’s arm to steady herself. In the end the effort was for naught. She tumbled backwards off her feet, dragging Oscar with her into the hay where they struggled to untangle themselves.

“Personal servant to the magistrate,” Clement said wonderingly, staring at Oscar with his placid eyes. “I can’t imagine working for someone so important. What is he like?”

Oscar pushed himself upright in his comfortable nest of straw, his legs crooked and elbows resting on his knees. He hummed thoughtfully. “He’s quiet,” he offered at last, “and very clever.” He thought about Wamba in the tribunal. “At his duties, he’s patient, and brave.”

“Yes, and don’t forget lovely as a rose on a summer morning,” interjected Emma, her hands clasped to her breast and her eyelashes fluttering theatrically.

“Sweet as honey and refreshing as cool breeze, I’m sure,” Margaret added, smiling at Oscar knowingly as a hot flush rose in his cheeks.

Succor came from an unexpected source. “You’re just jealous, the pair of you. You know you wish you had such a master to serve,” said Gregory. He leaned over and offered Oscar his jug of ale.

Oscar accepted it with a grateful grin. The older boy’s answering smile was awkward as the rest of him, but genuine.

“It must be a lot of responsibility,” remarked Clement.

Oscar shrugged, pressing the jug to his lip. “His needs are fairly simple. It will be no trouble at all.”

He should have known better than to profess such confidence so loudly. At the end of the first month, when he reported to Alard that he had spent precisely none of the coin he had received from Farren, he congratulated himself smugly on besting the man at his own game. In hindsight, the steward’s perplexed frown should have been his first clue.

Instead, he deceived himself sufficiently that all warning signs went unheeded, until one morning Wamba failed to appear even as the hour to leave for the tribunal drew near. He shifted the plates on the breakfast tray for the umpteenth time, darting worried glances at the door between the bedroom and the library, which remained stubbornly closed. Ultimately, concern won out. He approached the door with a sense of creeping dread.

“Wamba?” he called out, tapping one knuckle gently on the heavy wood.

From within the bedroom, a thin voice responded, words unintelligible through the barrier.

“I’m coming in,” he announced clearly, waiting a long moment before pushing open the door. The room was bitterly cold, the previous night’s fire no more than ash in the grate. In the spacious bed, Wamba’s slight form was swathed in heavy blankets and furs, barely distinguishable.

“Wamba?” Oscar tried again. “Are you unwell?”

The prone man shifted with a soft rustle of woolen blankets, and Wamba’s face came into view, pale and strained. He was curled on his side, his limbs pulled into a tight bundle against his chest, a faint tremor shuddering in waves across his body.

Oscar stared, frozen with shock, while Wamba blinked slowly up at him. He swallowed heavily, licked dry lips and croaked, “Could you run and ask Farren to come here?”

“You want me to leave you like this?” Oscar asked incredulously, pressing a hand to Wamba’s damp brow. “Tell me what you need.”

“Please,” Wamba said. “If you could fetch Farren, he will explain.”

Conflicted, he looked quickly back and forth between Wamba and the door. “I’ll be right back,” he promised, then took off at a run through the castle. He found Farren waiting at the gate that led to the tribunal, where he usually met Wamba each morning. The big soldier frowned as he watched Oscar approach alone, still at top speed. He steadied Oscar with a firm hand when the boy skidded to an unsteady halt before him.

Oscar grasped at his sleeve, sucking in a deep breath to gasp, “Something’s wrong with Wamba.” To his immense relief, this was all Farren needed to hear before he was striding quickly back in the direction of the keep, Oscar dogging his heels the whole way.

They burst into the bedroom to find Wamba just as Oscar had left him. Farren looked his huddled form over quickly, then went immediately to the cabinet, drawing forth Wamba’s medicine chest. He lifted the lid and rifled briefly through its contents, pulling out a squat stoppered vessel of clouded glass. He held it up to the light, and even from where he stood Oscar could easily see that it was empty.

“You little fool,” Farren rumbled softly, dropping the bottle back into the box. “How long has it been?”

Wamba turned his face into the bedclothes and said, “Three weeks.”

Farren scowled, setting the chest back on its shelf with more force than necessary. Wamba flinched.

“I’m sorry, Farren,” he whispered.

“There's no need to apologize,” Farren said. He placed a gentle hand on Wamba’s head, rubbing briefly through his mussed blonde hair. Then he turned, making his way quickly to the door, issuing terse instructions as he went. “Oscar, build that fire and fill the bath. Do not try to move him. I will return shortly with what he needs.”

As he had no better idea how to comfort Wamba, Oscar did as he was told. He dashed down to the kitchens to find servants to bring up water, then set about building the fire as high as he could manage. His eyes strayed often to Wamba, pale and nearly motionless on the bed, but he kept his mouth closed and the urgent questions welling up inside him at bay.

He was pouring the last kettleful of hot water into the bath when Farren returned. He was empty handed. Oscar opened his mouth to question him, but his words died in his throat when the towering man moved aside to reveal the stooped form of an old woman. Her thick hair was completely white, pulled off her deeply lined face and gathered beneath a black scarf that covered the back of her head and fluttered behind her. Her gnarled hands clutched a small leather satchel, while wide-set black eyes glanced sharply around the room, assessing Oscar in an instant before moving on to Wamba. She approached the bed with an odd rolling gait, dropping the satchel atop the blanket where it settled with a telltale clatter of glass.

“Always a mess,” she said, shaking her head. Her voice was low and rasping, a heavy accent distorting her words.

“Rachel,” Wamba sighed. “There was no need for you to come yourself.”

“No need, he says!” she repeated mockingly. “No need for me, though he lies there helpless like a little babe.”

Rachel pulled the blankets and furs bundled around Wamba’s shoulders away, revealing his cramped limbs to the warming air. She braced one hand on his shoulder and took hold of his wrist with the other, tugging experimentally. He hissed, his face tightening as the arm refused to uncurl.

“This is quite bad.” Shaking her head and clucking disapprovingly, she released him to root about in her satchel.

“What were you thinking?” Farren demanded of Wamba, standing close behind Rachel.

“It hasn’t been as bad of late,” Wamba said softly. “I thought I might be able to do without.” He shuddered, clenching his teeth against another wave of pain.

“Wamba, Lord Wilfred would never deny you the remedies you need. Why do you insist on bringing this on yourself?”

“Shout at him later,” Rachel snapped from between them. “Now, you will close your mouth and put him into the bath.” She extracted an elongated pouch from her satchel. Picking at the knot, she shuffled across the room to dip her fingers in the tub, testing the temperature.

“Yes,” she said. “Good.” She held the pouch out over the bath and tipped it, releasing a stream of fine white powder to fall like snow atop the steaming water. It melted at once, turning the bath into a milky broth that gave off the pungent reek of medicinal herbs.

“Oscar.” Farren’s voice drew his attention back toward the bed. He looked up to see Wamba cradled like a child in the soldier’s arms, his overlarge nightshirt hanging loose around his thin body.

“What can I do?” Oscar asked.

“You should go and see to your duties,” Farren said.

“You're sending me away?” Oscar cried. “I can help.”

“This requires only the two of us,” Rachel said, regarding him narrow eyed. “You will wait elsewhere. When we are done, you and I will talk.”

“Why can’t I stay?” He looked to Wamba, hoping the man would say something to intervene, but he was caught in the throes of another tremor, oblivious to the conversation happening around him. Oscar was outnumbered.

Thus evicted, he returned to the library where he paced restlessly, returning often to the bedroom door, pressing his ear against the wood to try to glean something of what was happening within, but the constant murmur of voices proved too faint to reveal anything. When it became clear that he would not be permitted to enter for some time, Oscar finally sought to distract himself with chores, ferrying the untouched breakfast tray back to the kitchens and retrieving clean linens from the harried laundresses.

The bedroom door was still closed when he returned, so he cleaned out the fireplace, swept the floors, and trimmed all of Wamba’s quills, growing increasingly impatient. By the time the noon bell rang, he was sure that he was moments from going mad.

Then, like a miracle, he heard the sound of the latch. He scrambled around the desk, dropping the quill in his hands and knocking over an inkwell in his haste. He righted it quickly, but disregarded the spill, too intent on seeing Wamba.

He had hardly gone two steps when Rachel appeared. She was carrying Wamba’s medicine chest in her hands, and she nodded to the table. Oscar's heart sank. Reluctantly, he followed the unspoken instruction and turned, returning to his seat.

“Is he alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said curtly. “Now, you are going to heed my words, boy.” She placed the chest on the table before Oscar and lifted the lid. He had hardly thought about the medicine chest since the first day he had discovered it in Wamba’s cabinet. There had been too many other things to worry about and its presence seemed insignificant in comparison. Now, he surveyed the motley assortment of jars, pots and bottles in bafflement.

“What is all of this?”

“The medicines I have prepared for him, of course.” She waved a hand at the clouded glass vessel Farren had sought, now filled to the brim with a fine powder. “This is for the muscles. It goes in the bath.” She tapped the blue earthenware jar just beside it with an arthritic finger. “This one is for the bones, especially useful in winter. These,” she gestured at a trio of small jars, “for his sleep, his head, and his hands when they ache.”

“He needs all of these?” Oscar asked in disbelief. In over a year living in close quarters, he had only seen Wamba open this chest once, and that was to tend Oscar’s own hurts. Whatever potions he was consuming for himself, he had kept them strictly behind the closed door of his bedroom.

“Yes. These five he must have. The rest, just a collection of remedies.” Among them, Oscar recognized the poultice that Wamba had used on his cuts and scrapes after his failed attempt to escape.

“I had no idea.”

“Farren has told me,” Rachel said. Her sharp eyes bored into him. “So I will tell you. From now, every month you will come to me and take medicines to replace what has been used. This way, the jars will never be empty.”

“I will,” Oscar swore. “I won’t let this happen again.”

“Good,” Rachel nodded, slamming the lid of the chest down. Behind her, the bedroom door opened again, this time to admit Farren. The soldier was carrying his mail under his arm, the sleeves of his woolen shirt rolled back above his elbows, baring massive forearms.

“He’s asleep,” he announced.

“That is good,” said Rachel. “Then I will leave.”

“I will accompany you back,” Farren offered at once, but she waved him off dismissively.

“No need. I know the way.” With one last narrow look at Oscar, she took up her satchel and limped off determinedly into the castle alone.

In her wake, Farren dropped his mail on the table and lowered himself into the chair beside Oscar’s with a heavy sigh. For a long moment, they sat together in exhausted silence, staring at opposite corners of the room.

“Is he ill?” Oscar ventured at last.

Farren turned to look at him, his face softening in something like pity. “Not as such,” he replied. “He is strong, Oscar, but at times his body betrays him. It is no fault of his own.”

“Is this because I didn’t get the medicine?”

“Do not blame yourself for that,” Farren rumbled, reaching out to place a reassuring hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “He is stubborn, and has always hated to be a burden to others. He must be forced to look after himself. I should have been more explicit in my advice to you.”

Oscar frowned, not at all reassured by the words. “What happened to him?”

“That is not for me to tell you,” Farren said, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, as if to banish an unpleasant memory.

“Will he be alright?” Oscar asked quietly. In the end, it was all he really wished to know.

“He has endured much, but he survived all of it. He will survive this.”

Oscar glanced at the closed door that stood between him and where Wamba slept. “What should I do?”

“Just let him rest. Bring him something simple for supper. Tomorrow, he will attempt to return to the tribunal. If you feel he is not yet ready to do so, come and find me.”

Oscar nodded. "I will."


	37. Chapter 37

It was late in the evening when Wamba finally appeared. The moment he heard the reluctant creak of the door, Oscar leapt at once from the couch, his book falling unheeded to the table with a thump as he turned. Wamba stood in the doorway, one hand grasping the frame to steady himself. The other clutched a woolen blanket closed about his narrow shoulders. Beneath, he had dressed in soft leggings and a loose tunic, though his feet were bare.

“You’re awake,” Oscar said. He advanced cautiously toward Wamba, noting with concern the lines of strain that had not quite faded from his face despite spending the entirety of the day in repose. “How do you feel?”

“Much better,” Wamba replied, voice hoarse with disuse. He allowed Oscar to take him by the arm, relinquishing his hold on the doorframe to brave the open stretch of cold stone to the couch in a slow shuffle that made Oscar ache just watching him. He settled the man carefully in his usual seat, tugging the blanket closed over his legs. This task accomplished, he fluttered anxiously about for anything that would make Wamba more comfortable.

“What do you need? Can I fetch you something?”

Dark eyes observed his fretting for a long moment, before a thin hand emerged from the blankets to take his wrist in a reassuring grip.

“Peace, Oscar. I am well.”

“You’re not, though,” he said, staring at the pale fingers wrapped around his arm. “You say that, but it’s not true.”

“Sit for a moment. Please.”

Oscar obeyed the gentle tug that followed, settling to the couch beside Wamba. He kept his gaze resolutely on his knees, refusing to meet Wamba’s eyes for fear he would humiliate himself by bursting into tears.

“I owe you an apology, Oscar.”

“What?” Oscar frowned. “It was my fault you were forced to go without your medicine.”

Wamba’s grip on his arm tightened briefly. “Please let me say what I mean to say. This is hardly the first time I've had such an episode, as I’m sure you were able to discern. I knew the danger. I even had a suspicion it might be coming, but I chose to keep the truth about the medicine from you, though I knew you had no reason to think to procure more. This was my fault, Oscar, not yours. Do not blame yourself.”

“I should have realized you were unwell," Oscar insisted. That was the crux of the matter, that Oscar had been so consumed by his own concerns that he had failed to note the signs of Wamba's declining condition.

“It is hardly the sort of thing one would normally expect. I’ve taken pains to keep it from you, after all.”

“You didn’t want me to know,” Oscar said, looking up at Wamba at last.

“This is my own weakness,” Wamba sighed, releasing Oscar’s wrist to tuck his hands back under the blanket. “I believed that telling you would only cause you to worry, and the last thing I want is to burden you with my infirmities. I’m enough of a burden on you as it is.”

Oscar clenched his fists atop his knees, fighting back the frustrated tears that blurred the edges of his vision. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

“You are so very generous, Oscar,” Wamba told him gently, “but it was never my intention to make a permanent servant of you. You should use this time for educating and bettering yourself, for making friends and learning of the workings of the world, not for playing nursemaid to a damaged slave.” 

Oscar’s chest ached so fiercely he thought he might choke. He slid to his knees at Wamba’s feet, reaching out to clasp Wamba’s cold hands between his own and gazing up at him urgently. “Don’t you know why I came back? It wasn’t for the books or the bed and it certainly wasn’t for the nobles. I want to take care of you. That’s why I’m here. Why I chose to be here, and why the king let me stay. I don’t understand why you won’t let me.”

“You should not waste yourself on me, Oscar,” Wamba whispered. 

“Isn’t that my choice to make?” Oscar asked him.

The corner of Wamba’s mouth twitched in a hint of a wry smile. “I suppose I won’t have much of a say now, with you and Farren and Rachel all conspiring against me.”

“We're hardly your enemies. They only want you to be well, as I do,” Oscar admonished him. He settled back on his heels, his gaze never leaving Wamba’s face. “I still don’t really understand what happened. Is it an illness?”

“No,” Wamba said to their tangled hands. “More of an old injury, really. Or a series of them. My muscles grow tired, and when they are forced to go without rest, they make their displeasure known by refusing to follow my commands. Since I began using Rachel’s potion, it has been better. Much better. I suppose I deceived myself that it might be to do with my body recovering rather than the power of her craft.”

“I would not want to anger her again, if I were you,” Oscar said.

"Worry not,” Wamba told him with a little grimace, “she gave me quite the scolding, and has said in no uncertain terms that if she does not see you regularly, I will not enjoy the consequences.”

“Is she the only one who can make your medicines?”

“One of very few."

“Doesn’t the king have a physician? He can’t make the potion you need?”

Wamba shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid not. Rachel’s curatives are remarkable, but little accepted by most physicians.”

“Why wouldn’t people want them if they work?” Oscar asked with a frown.

“She was trained in the healing arts of her people,” Wamba said. “She is a Jew, Oscar.”

“Oh,” Oscar breathed, feeling his eyes widen. He had wondered at her odd accent and her manner of dress, but had not speculated as to the reasons for her peculiarities. He knew that there were Jews in London, of course, but he had never spoken to one before. He knew only what he had heard from others. The Jews were the subject of rumors and debates, tales of usury and deceit. He had never heard of one being a healer.

Wamba must have perceived his consternation, for despite his weariness he pushed himself upright again to say, “You should not believe all you have heard of them. They are not the demons they have been cast by we Christians. They are people, and just like all others there are those who are kind and those who are wicked among their number.”

“How did you find her?” Oscar asked.

“There was a woman named Rebecca, who was generous and beautiful as any noble lady you have seen. She was also skilled in the healing methods of her people, and it was she who first offered me aid when she passed through my master’s hall on her way to quit these shores. She commended me to find Rachel if I had further need, which I did, as you have seen.”

He swayed suddenly, and Oscar rose swiftly to catch him by the shoulders and guide him back safely to recline on the couch.

“Whoever she is and whatever art she used, I am glad to see that she has been of help to you,” Oscar said, “but you are not yet fully recovered. Let me bring you something to eat. You’ll need your strength if you intend to return to the your duties tomorrow.”

“Speaking of that,” Wamba said, watching Oscar rise to his feet, “I have meant to ask you. Would you like to work in the tribunal?”

Oscar gaped at him. “Me?”

Wamba chuckled. “Yes, Oscar. I meant what I said. You are fit for much more than the life of a servant. It is your choice, of course, but if you would like to have a role in the tribunal, I would be happy to give you one.”

Though his heart leapt, Oscar was careful not to let his eagerness show. Instead, he pursed his lips and held out a hand to Wamba. “Alright,” he said, “but only if you'll take my bargain. I will work to educate myself and learn about the tribunal, and you will promise to take better care of yourself and let me help you when you are in need.”

Wamba reached up and took his hand. “Agreed.”


	38. Chapter 38

In the morning, Wamba was looking much more himself, and though his movements had yet to regain the full measure of their usual grace, Oscar judged him fit enough to resume his duties, once he had obediently eaten his breakfast. As they walked through the castle, Wamba explained the role he had in mind for Oscar.

“Now that you are more proficient in your writing, I thought I might give you an opportunity to practice. You have seen the notes that I make for each matter as it is discussed. This will be your task from now on.”

It was an intimidatingly important responsibility. Oscar hummed doubtfully. “My hand is not skilled enough yet to write very fast,” he pointed out.

“You need not record every word that is said,” Wamba assured him. “The most important points, naturally, but beyond that it is more about making observations than capturing every detail. By reading mine, you will have an idea of what I mean.”

“What if I miss something important?”

Wamba gave him a reassuring smile. “There's no need to worry just yet. For now, I shall continue to make notes as well. We can compare our work afterward. I daresay there will be some observations of yours that escape me.”

Oscar heartily doubted it, but said nothing. Instead, he met Farren’s questioning gaze with a confident smile as they approached the gate, letting him know that he was satisfied with Wamba’s recovery, though it did not stop the soldier taking Wamba aside for a brief, hushed conversation to confirm for himself.

It was less than a week before he had his own little table and stool, set just off to the side of the dais behind Farren’s habitual post. He settled there nervously that first morning, striving desperately to disregard the palpable stares of the crowd in the hall. A wave of acute sympathy for Wamba washed over him, watching where he sat alone on the dais, but Oscar stamped down on the desire to flee, keeping his head down and focused on the thin sheet of parchment provided for him. As Wamba had instructed, he took careful note of each important detail that emerged through the magistrate’s calm questioning, his hand shaky but legible. Gradually, as he found the courage to raise his head at last, he began to make notes on the people as well as their words, on who appeared less than honest, which witnesses spoke confidently and which looked to others for guidance, or changed their accounts as they were questioned further. Each afternoon, he discussed these with Wamba, who praised him warmly for his observations while calmly pointing out what had been missed. Under his patient tutelage, Oscar found himself growing more confident with each passing day.

On top of his usual duties, however, it meant that he was busier than ever. Between daily chores, his regular appointments with Alard and Rachel, his continuing conversations with Clerewald the archivist, and his new role in the tribunal, he was lucky to find an hour here or there to spend with his friends in the stables. Though he thought often of his family and friends outside the castle, he was hard pressed to make time to venture out to visit them. He spent one evening with Emmett and Mary, just after word arrived that their son had been born, but had not been back since, as the demands of his daily life got the better of him time and again. It was a welcome surprise, therefore, to glance up one day from his little table in the tribunal and spy a familiar flash of red hair a few rows away. He craned his neck to confirm his suspicions, and found Cara’s infectious smile blazing back at him from the crowd.

He nearly laughed aloud, clamping a hand across his mouth to conceal his ecstatic grin. Farren shot him a reproving glare over his shoulder, and Oscar marshaled his attention back to his appointed task, though his ears buzzed as though his head had been filled with bees and his eyes flicked frequently back to Cara, his notes suffering markedly because of it. He knew he would be enduring yet another of Wamba’s gentle reprimands when it came time to discuss them, and thanked his stars that the man still took his own notes as well.

When the tribunal was finally concluded for the morning, Oscar shot quickly through the milling throng to where Cara sat, leaning over the bench in front of her to grasp at her hand.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his grin back in full force.

Her smile was equally bright. “I came to get a peek at your gallant magistrate,” she said conspiratorially, leaning close.

Oscar laughed, though he glanced around quickly to ensure they had not been overheard. “It’s good to see you,” he said sincerely, “but I have duties now. Can you come to the gate in an hour or so?”

“Yes, of course.” Cara gave his hand one more firm press before releasing him. She nodded over his shoulder. “I think your man is waiting for you.”

Oscar turned to find that Wamba was indeed standing motionless at the door to the antechamber, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“One hour,” he said again, and waited for her nod before he turned and scurried back to Wamba’s side, snatching up his parchment as he passed his table.

“Is all well?” Wamba asked him, circumspect as usual when it came to Oscar’s personal affairs. It was impossible to discern what he might be thinking behind his impassive mask.

“Yes,” Oscar said. “Just an old friend who came to say hello.” If Wamba wanted to play coy, he was more than up to the challenge.

Wamba nodded and did not ask him anything further, so Oscar said nothing more, just smiled and led the way back to the castle. He fetched Wamba’s dinner and had time to visit the tailor as well to retrieve several freshly mended garments before he bounded off to meet Cara at the gate as promised. He waved at the guard as he passed, smirking at the sour look he received. Dunstan had yet to forgive him for the humiliating incident of several months past, though perhaps it was natural, as Oscar had made no effort to reconcile with the dour fellow after their misunderstanding.

Cara was sitting on a wide stone a few paces from the main gate, basking in the spring sun that had finally reappeared after several weeks of steady rain, the evidence of which lay in the muddy puddles that dotted the path Oscar walked to reach her.

“You there!” he called to her back. “ No loitering allowed here!”

Cara smiled over her shoulder at him. “But I’ve special permission.”

“Oh yes? Who gave you this special permission?” he inquired airily, hopping up to sit beside her on the stone. It was rough and gritty under his hands, still a touch damp, and he felt the moisture leech into his trousers.

“A very important person,” she said, bumping his shoulder with hers. “Personal servant to the magistrate.”

“I wouldn’t put much stock in that. That fellow has no sway at all around here,” Oscar snorted, shoving her back with a smile. “How are you, Cara?”

She turned to look out at the river with its constant traffic of wooden boats creaking along in the gentle wind and sea birds circling above, and did not answer.

“Cara?”

“He’s very beautiful, isn’t he?” she said. “Your magistrate.”

“Beautiful?” Oscar scoffed, thrown completely by this sudden sharp turn.

“Not his face,” she continued. “Or, well, not only his face.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, a sly smirk tilting her lips.

“Are you off your head?” he demanded, pulling his leg up so he could turn to face her.

“I think he might be the saddest man I’ve ever seen,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s quite beautiful, really, in a tragic sort of way.”

Oscar snorted, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck in total consternation, at a loss for what to say. The worst of it was, he could not disagree with her. Wamba wore his sorrow very well, lurking always in the shadows in his eyes and the sad little tilt at the corner of his mouth in a way that gave him a depth of fascination. Oscar flattered himself that Wamba had grown lighter over their time together, but the truth was that even in his happiest moments, the man was rarely carefree. Somehow, it was a great relief to hear that Cara saw in Wamba what Oscar himself saw, that he was not blinded by his emotions.

"Yes," he admitted at last. "He is."

“Look after him, Oscar,” Cara commanded, something like determination in her spring green eyes as she finally met his gaze. “This city needs him, and he needs you, and that makes you more important than you know.”

Oscar forced himself to laugh past the sudden lump in his throat. “So serious. Did you come just to get a look at him?”

“You’re my best friend, Oscar. Of course I had to have my say about the person you’ve chosen for yourself,” she teased him.

“Is that really all you came to do?” While he was flattered, Oscar had a suspicion that there was more to her visit than simple curiosity, after nearly three months.

Cara bit at her lip, an uncertain frown drawing a furrow between her brows. “Not exactly,” she confessed.

"Is something wrong?" Oscar asked.

“You said that I could ask you if I needed help,” Cara began.

“Of course,” he answered at once. “What do you need?”

“It’s silly, really,” she prevaricated. “Nothing for you to concern yourself with, only you had offered so I thought I should at least ask.”

“Cara,” he said, interrupting her nervous babbling and taking her near hand between his own. It was unusually clammy in his grasp, and he worried about what could be weighing on her so heavily. “Just tell me what you need.”

She gave him another searching look, her eyes jumping back and forth between his, before she sighed and nodded. “One of the girls is ill. She hasn’t any coin to pay the physician, and my uncle won’t give her anything to help.”

Oscar nodded, not forcing her to explain further. “How much does she need?”

“Three shillings.”

“What?” Oscar cried. “That’s absurd!”

“I know, but it’s what he’s asking,” Cara said. “He let her have the first few doses for nothing, and told her she could pay later, but she hasn't any more money now than when she agreed to begin with. Now he won’t give her any more until she pays him back for all of it. We suspect his aim is to convince her to pay in trade.”

“Trade? You mean in ale?” he asked doubtfully.

“No, Oscar.” Cara’s raised brow spoke eloquently of how little she thought of his intellect in that moment.

“Oh!” he gasped, the light of understanding crashing through his confusion like a rampaging bull. The very idea was repellent, but he did not doubt that such a thing could happen. He knew how a lack of coin could drive people to desperation. He understood why Cara was so eager to find some alternative that she had come to him.

Oscar wanted nothing more than to offer aid to Cara, but his own purse was not much better off than hers. After the birth of his nephew, he had given up his monthly shilling to Emmett to pay the midwife and procure much needed goods for the baby. While he had given it over joyfully, it meant that his purse at his waist was light. He pulled it open anyway, just to make sure, but he was met with the same half dozen pennies that had been there for days.

That was not quite right, though, he realized. He did in fact have another purse on his person, carried in anticipation of a visit to Rachel’s little shop later that very day. His fingers hovered over the worn leather sack tied securely to his belt. He knew that the money in that second purse was not his own. It was not even Wamba’s, though it was meant for his use. Until it was spent, that coin belonged to Ivanhoe, and to give it away was to steal from the knight. On the other hand, he also knew, without a solitary doubt, that Wamba would never sanction allowing a young girl to purchase a cure she desperately needed by trading her body if he could prevent it.

It was this certainty, more than anything, which allowed his hand to close around the purse, tugging it from his belt. He opened it and extracted three shillings of Lord Ivanhoe’s coin to press into Cara’s hand.

He afforded himself no doubt. He would worry about the rest when the time came.


	39. Chapter 39

He regretted his decision almost immediately. The two weeks that followed Cara's visit were the most harrowing in Oscar’s recent memory. He continued to carry out his duties, taking meticulous notes in the tribunal to prove that he was worthy of the responsibility, seeing to the menial chores which made up his daily life. Yet always in the back of his mind was the worry of the three shillings he had given away, and what he must do to replace them.

Very briefly, he entertained the idea of falsifying one of the small notes Rachel gave him as her proof of what was spent on medicines. The notes were simple scraps of parchment, and he thought that with practice he could replicate her mark to a convincing degree of accuracy. It would be easy enough, at least in theory, but when Wamba spent less than two shillings per month, an unexpected additional three would raise alarm all on its own. Oscar was unwilling to let Wamba go without his medicines in order to cover his deceit, and to suddenly present five shillings worth of expense stretched the realm of believability.

This left him with the only recourse of finding some way to replace what he had given away. He had known since his first day with Wamba, when he had ransacked the man’s chambers in search of valuables, that no coin was kept there. Equally, there was nothing of sufficient value that might be sold or bartered. His friends were out of the question, as he knew what they earned from their labors and the sum he required far outstripped what they could be asked to lend, even collectively. Emmett would help him, if he asked, but it would come at the cost of his family’s needs, something Oscar was not willing to compromise. As the day he would have to face Alard neared, in the height of his desperation, he finally thought to try Farren. He made it as far as the yard before he turned back, his dread of what the soldier would say about his transgression so great it turned his feet to blocks of lead and would let them carry him no further.

Thus it was that the month ended and his time was up, with no solution found. He made his way to the steward’s office with a heavy tread, his feet dragging and his heart sinking into his guts, where a pit of snakes writhed madly in a nauseating mass.

Alard barely looked up when Oscar entered, his quill scratching busily along in his record book. “You’re late.”

“Yes, sir,” Oscar said, too apprehensive to put up his usual hostile front.

The uncommonly docile response made Alard look up, his quill hovering above the page as he fixed Oscar with a suspicious glare. He held out a hand, waving impatiently. “Give it here, then. I don’t have all day.”

With nothing left but to face up to what he had done, Oscar handed over the purse, and hoped against hope that the missing funds would go unnoticed. This fantasy was dashed almost at once.

“Rather light, isn’t it?” Alard scowled. “You had at least five shillings in here the last time I counted.”

Oscar swallowed and watched as the man’s spidery fingers picked open the knot on the purse’s leather thong, upending it to let a pitiful scattering of pennies fall to the table in a tinny chorus.

“What’s this, then?” Alard drawled, fixing Oscar with a slow stare that dared him to offer an excuse rather than an explanation.

Swallowing hard, Oscar said, “It was needed.”

Alard leaned toward Oscar on his elbows, his hands steepled before him failing conceal his creeping smile.

“And where, pray tell, has it gone?”

“To buy medicine,” Oscar said, holding to that truth even as he was forced to confront how very deeply he had dug his own grave.

“Yet, I see a slip for the slave’s usual potions here, for one shilling five pence,” Alard grasped Rachel’s note between two fingers, waving it mockingly at Oscar. “What do you say for the rest?”

Oscar opened his mouth, but no words would come to him. He stood mute and horrified as Alard’s smirk widened into a grin of pure cruel delight.

“Giles,” he shouted. The door opened, and the bald head of the steward’s regular guard appeared, expression expectant. Alard stared Oscar in the eye as he said, “Go and arrest Cedric. Bring him here to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Giles said tonelessly, disappearing again without question.

“Arrest him?” Oscar cried. “He hasn't done anything wrong!”

“Yet his master’s purse is light. He must provide an explanation or face the consequences.”

“It was my fault,” Oscar insisted, stepping forward to slam his hands down emphatically on the steward’s desk, “and I’ll pay it back. All of it. Wamba had no part in this.”

“Of course he has a part, and for your own sake you should pray he admits to it, or you have just confessed that you have stolen from a prominent member of the nobility. I’m sure you know the penalty that carries with it.”

Oscar sucked in a sharp breath, and his stomach turned over. The possibility Alard was implying had never even crossed his mind, but it came into sharp focus now. His well-intentioned act could put him back in the cells, back within reach of the chopping block or even the gallows.

His heart began to race to a panicked beat in his chest, which only redoubled when the door slammed open and Wamba was shoved into the room, propelled by Giles who held his wrists tight to the small of his back. He was still in his robes, and clearly confused by this sudden turn of events. His eyes flicked to Oscar for a moment before focusing on the steward.

He frowned at Alard as he was jerked to a halt by the guard’s punishing grip. “You have need of me?” he asked, the faintest hint of annoyance coloring the words.

“I must say you are remarkably calm for one who has been shamelessly picking his master’s pockets,” Alard sneered.

Wamba’s eyes widened, flying back to Oscar with an urgent question written clear across his face.

Desperately, Oscar whispered, “It was needed.”

“Three whole shillings gone missing and no explanation for it,” Alard continued. “So tell me, slave. Is this your doing?”

Wamba had not looked away from Oscar. Their eyes held for a long moment, and Oscar knew he was not imagining the disappointment there.

Then Wamba turned to Alard and, with a firm nod, he lied. “Yes,” he said, “it is.”

Oscar watched the steward’s face light with cruel glee. “Then as your master is away, there is nothing to do but report this to the king.”

Their procession to the king’s study garnered more than a few startled looks. Alard led the way, striding eagerly forward and rubbing his hands together in heartless anticipation. Wamba was marched forcefully in his wake by Giles, who kept a fierce grip on his wrists though he gave no resistance. At the rear, Oscar scrambled to keep up, begging the steward desperately to wait and being roundly ignored.

King Richard was less than impressed with their entrance. At Alard’s prompting, Giles pushed Wamba to his knees before the king’s great desk, forcing him to abase himself as Oscar had been when he was first captured, though in Wamba’s case his hands were still secured tightly behind him. Still, he did not fight, letting himself collapse to the stone floor and falling still under the bruising hands that restrained him.

“What is the meaning of this?” King Richard asked, standing to look down at Wamba, whose head hung low, his hair obscuring his face. The king glowered warningly at Alard. "I trust you have an excellent reason for these actions."

The steward pointed an accusing finger at Wamba’s humbled form and proclaimed triumphantly, “The slave has stolen his master’s coin, sire, as I warned you he would. The purse is light and he has confessed.”

King Richard was silent for a long moment, fixing Wamba with a bemused frown. Then he stepped around the desk, standing in front of the restrained man. Oscar held his breath, praying with all his might that the king’s fondness for Wamba would be enough to protect him.

Finally, the king asked, “Is this true, Wamba?”

“It is, sire,” came the immediate reply, quiet and sure.

The king hummed, regret passing swiftly over his face before it was swallowed by steely authority. “Then it seems I have little choice. We must have you whipped.”

“Yes, sire,” Wamba replied in a whisper.

“No!” Oscar cried, ice flooding his veins and blooming across his skin in a cold rush of horror. “Wait!”

“You will be silent,” the king roared, his furious gaze turned on Oscar, narrowed eyes threatening dire consequences if he was not obeyed. “This is your failure, but what luck for you that you will not be forced to bear the punishment.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Begone from here. He will be delivered to you after he has taken his lashes, and we shall see what it takes to finally make you learn from your mistakes.”

Alard’s jubilant smirk was sure to be burned into Oscar’s memory until the end of his days.

“Sire!” he tried again, his voice cracking on the desperate plea.

“You,” the king snapped, pointing at Giles, “remove this boy, then return to your post. You will say nothing of this to anyone.”

Giles nodded, releasing Wamba at last to seize Oscar instead, taking a painfully tight grip on his arm and using it to shove him from the room. Oscar’s last sight of Wamba was of his slumped and defeated form, Alard standing over him in triumph.


	40. Chapter 40

Richard watched the door close and forced his breathing to calm. On the floor at his feet, Wamba kneaded surreptitiously at his wrist where the guard’s fingers had restrained him.

“I’ll take this slave to the dungeons.” Alard was grinning like a man who had stumbled upon a treasure trove and could not believe his luck. He rubbed his hands together in keen anticipation.

“You most certainly will not,” Richard snapped, his ire getting the better of him as he observed his steward’s naked delight at his perceived victory.

“Sire?” the steward said, confusion wrinkling his brow as his hands fell still.

“I have had enough of your petty grudges, Alard,” he said, spearing the man with a hard stare. “I know you disagree with my decision to use Wamba as I have, but I did not ask your opinion on the matter. In seeking to undermine him as you have, you go directly against my wishes. Keep that in mind, and consider your actions more carefully in future.”

“He stole from his master, your majesty,” Alard insisted.

“Do not insult my intelligence. We both know he did no such thing, and your insistence on that fiction is unbecoming. Your actions today have been utterly unworthy of your post. Be warned. If you parade my magistrate through the corridors like a criminal again, I will have you removed. You are not irreplaceable.”

“I apologize, sire,” Alard stammered, clearly struggling to make sense of this sudden and complete reversal of the king’s earlier words.

“Good,” Richard said. “Now get out.”

With a deep and somewhat unsteady bow, Alard fled, leaving Richard alone with Wamba, who had yet to raise his head.

He extended a hand down to the young man. “Stand up, Wamba.”

Wamba hesitated for only a moment before he put his hand in Richard’s, allowing his sovereign to help him to his feet. “Thank you, sire,” he said warily.

The king tapped him under the chin, urging him to raise his eyes. “Come now. You must know I would not order you under the lash for that reckless hellion’s misdeeds. Or for any other reason, come to that.”

Wamba’s gaze flicked quickly up to his and back down. “The fact remains, sire, that I took responsibility for his crime. If there is to be punishment dealt, I would rather it fell on me.”

Richard shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You are too soft with him.”

“Perhaps, sire,” Wamba said. “Nevertheless, that is my wish.”

The king considered this for hardly a moment. “No, I trust that the fright I’ve just given him will be enough to help him remember his obligation to me and to you as well. Once he pays back the debt, I will consider it done.” Richard smirked. “If you feel that lashes are due, you can speak to Wilfred about it.”

Wamba finally smiled at that. “He would take them himself before he let them fall to me.”

“Of course he would, just as he would be most displeased if I were to have you flogged on his behalf, and for the sake of three paltry shillings no less. So let’s have no more of this ridiculous talk.”

“Yes, sire,” Wamba said with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

Now that the tension was finally dissipating, he returned to his chair, waving Wamba into another. “What did he spend it on?”

“I cannot say,” Wamba replied, taking a seat. “My summons was rather abrupt, and I have not had an opportunity to ask him.”

“You had no knowledge of this before Alard had you seized?”

“None, sire,” Wamba said.

“So you lied to me,” Richard observed mildly.

“Never, sire,” Wamba objected. “I confirmed only that I had confessed. My lie was for Alard.”

Richard reached across to deal him a gentle cuff. “These equivocations of yours are going to get you into trouble some day.”

“And out of it the same day, I hope,” Wamba said with a grin.

“I have little doubt of that,” the king said ruefully. “If only Oscar were half as cunning,”

“With time, he may learn.”

“You’re under no obligation to keep him, you know,” Richard pointed out. “If he comes to be more trouble than he’s worth, we can have another post found for him.”

“He is young and impulsive,” Wamba said, “but I have faith he will mature eventually, and his heart is in the right place. I think on balance the good still outweighs the bad.”

“Well, it’s your decision, but just remember my offer.”

“I will, sire.”

“By the way,” the king said, “seeing as you are so fortuitously here already, let us discuss some interesting news that has arrived from Shropshire.”

“Shropshire, sire?” Wamba asked curiously.

“It seems that one of the thanes there has found a number of his serfs gone missing.”

Wamba’s eyes widened. “You think it may have to do with Reginald’s stolen slaves, sire?”

“I do,” Richard nodded. “Shropshire is certainly within easy enough reach of Hereford that serfs from one may end up slaves in the other without anyone having a chance to notice.”

“It would be good to know what really happened,” Wamba said. “Even if we cannot return that group to their families, there may be a chance to prevent others suffering the same fate.”

“That is my thinking as well,” Richard said. “I will have the reports sent to you. See what you can discover, and use any resources you need. If there is enough evidence to point to an origin of these mysterious disappearances, it may be worth a visit.”

“I’ll see if I can gather the pieces of this puzzle for you, so your emissary knows what to look for.”

Richard sat back in his chair and kicked his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. “I’ll want you to go yourself, if it comes to that.”

“Me, sire?” Wamba frowned doubtfully. “What of the tribunal?”

Richard laughed. “I think the city can spare you for a week or two. I know they keep you busy, but even you should have a chance to get away now and then. It may be time to find someone to share those duties, or at least act as a stand-in when you must attend to other concerns.”

“I am content to be of use to you, sire.”

“I know,” Richard said seriously. “You’ve done an admirable job, Wamba. If I have not said it often enough, let me assure you of it now. You have more than met all expectations I had when I brought you here.”

“Thank you, sire,” Wamba murmured, an endearing flush rising in his pale cheeks.

“Now, you will dine with me tonight,” the kind pronounced. “Let that little criminal of yours stew for a while longer.”

Wamba bowed his head. “As you command, your majesty.”


	41. Chapter 41

Oscar stumbled as he was released, thrust forcefully down the last few steps of the flight that led to the king’s study. He caught himself on both hands against the opposite wall, shuddering with wild-eyed shock, not entirely sure his heart still beat within his chest. The full weight of what he had done settled leaden over him, the unimaginable result of his poorly considered decision. Never could he have believed that it would go this far, that the king would have Wamba brutally punished for his lapse of judgment.

Heaving with barely contained sobs, he whirled around to face Giles, who blocked the passage up to the study. “Let me go back,” he pleaded. “I have to talk to him.”

“The king’s word is final, lad,” the guard said, not unkindly. “I suggest you go and prepare what you’ll need to see to him after.”

The plain words evoked a precipitous barrage of bloody images in Oscar’s imagination, all that he had been steadfastly refusing to contemplate since the king had given his sentence. The visions of floggings he had witnessed burst past the last splinters of his denial and into the forefront of his mind, the prisoners in his memory replaced now with Wamba, bright head bowed and writhing under the merciless lash, his mellow voice cracking on a raw scream. Oscar choked back a heavy sob, his hands tightening into impotent fists as this nightmarish scene washed over him.

Desperately shoving the horror aside, Oscar wracked his brain, struggling to think through the panic. Finally, a single spark of a possibility presented itself, a last chance to change the king’s mind. Swallowing hard, Oscar turned and ran to find Farren.

Though it was nearly sunset, the guard captain was in the yard, drilling a group of young men with their pikes. His bellowed commands carried over the sound of the clashing staves, drawing Oscar’s to him at once, though his relief was tempered by the profound dread of what the soldier would say when he heard what Oscar’s indiscretion had wrought. He did not let it slow him, barreling on across the yard until Farren noticed him and called for his men to hold.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded without preamble, taking Oscar by the arm and dragging him away from the ranks of the soldiers where they might be overheard.

“Please,” he choked, “you have to help Wamba. The king is going to have him whipped.”

Farren’s grip on Oscar tightened painfully, his eyes gone flinty as he growled, “What did you do?”

Oscar did not bother to be insulted at the big soldier’s immediate suspicion. His mistrust was completely justified, after all. Instead, he fought the urge to shrink in on himself, and met the man’s eyes steadily as he confessed. Farren listened to his words in stony silence, his gaze boring into Oscar in a way that demanded complete honesty. Only when he was finished did he look away, waiting for the recrimination he knew was coming. Farren did not disappoint.

“I knew you were rash,” Farren said coldly, “but I never believed you would do something so utterly stupid.”

He could only nod, letting his own guilt and the big man’s anger wash over him, unable to say anything in his own defense in light of the proof of his idiocy so painfully on display.

“How long must you continue to hurt him before you learn?” Farren continued, voice hollow.

Oscar did not dare answer, his eyes on his scuffed boots. Farren released him with a shove and a disgusted snort.

“I will do what I can,” he said. “Go back to his chambers and wait.”

“I’m sorry,” Oscar whispered.

“I am not the one who needs to hear that apology.”

With that, he set off at a determined pace for the castle, shouting a command to the training soldiers over his shoulder. Oscar just watched him go, feeling as unworthy and useless as he ever had. When he was finally able to make his limbs obey his will, he shuffled back to Wamba’s chambers as he had been ordered.

He spent the first hour building up the fire and trying to decide what Wamba would need when he was returned, but once again his knowledge was lacking. He had no idea whether a bath would help or hurt fresh lashes. He pawed through the medicine chest, but none of the little bottles was marked and he did not know what the most appropriate treatment might be. He did not know whether he should fetch food or if Wamba would be unable to eat. At a loss, he found himself in short order huddled on the rug before the fire, wondering and waiting anxiously.

As the hours dragged on, he became increasingly distraught, tears breaking through to trail down his cheeks and drip unheeded to the carpet. Though more than enough time had passed that surely the sentence must have been carried out, the door refused to open and his purgatory continued, with no word from any quarter. He could not leave to find someone to ask and risk Wamba returning in his absence, so he was forced to wait and to worry.

The fire was beginning to gutter, in need of new fuel, when he finally heard a step in the corridor and his heart jumped into his throat, pounding away madly as he scrambled to his feet. Slowly, the door swung open. Oscar squared his shoulders, bracing himself for whatever waited on the other side.

His eyes widened in shock and relief to find Wamba there, alone and upright and looking no different than he had when Oscar last saw him. Oscar’s eyes roamed his form automatically, looking for evidence of injury and finding none. Wamba was perfectly composed, watching him with calm eyes from across the room. He tried to speak, but no words would come to him, his throat chokingly tight.

“Oscar,” Wamba broke the silence. He crossed the threshold and closed the door quietly behind him. Oscar scrutinized the way he moved, but there was nothing to indicate he might be in pain, and he began to hope distantly that his plea to Farren might have worked.

“Are you alright?” Oscar demanded at last. “What did they do to you?”

Wamba tucked his hands into his sleeves. “Nothing, Oscar.”

“Nothing?” he gasped. “The king said…”

“The king never intended to have me flogged,” Wamba interrupted him. “He only wanted you to believe so. Well done sending Farren into a frenzy, by the way.”

Oscar gaped at him, hot anger welling rapidly as his fear began to ebb away. “You let me wait here thinking you were strung up in the dungeons this whole time? I’ve been worrying for hours!”

“I know.” Wamba’s face was uncharacteristically stern. “This was your punishment, Oscar. The king wanted you to understand the gravity of your crime, and to be perfectly honest, so did I.”

Though he did not say it outright, it was clear Wamba was more than a little displeased with him.

“Do you fully comprehend the danger in you brought upon yourself?” he asked. “It could have been your life, Oscar, and for what? A few coins? Have you learned nothing?”

“I always meant to pay it back,” Oscar defended himself feebly, flushing with shame.

“Pay it back you shall, and thank your king that he remains merciful and will demand no more from you in recompense.” Wamba crossed his arms and regarded Oscar with a tilted head. “You said that the coin was needed. What was it needed for?”

Oscar twisted his hands together in an uneasy knot, and finally explained. “My friend needed the money. She said one of the girls who works with her is ill, and the physician meant to force her to do him favors in exchange for treatment if she did not produce the coin he wanted. It didn’t feel right to turn her away.” Quietly, he admitted, “I thought you would have done the same.”

Wamba sighed, closing the distance between them at last, laying a gentle hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “You are very kind-hearted, Oscar, but there are better ways,” he said softly. “If you had asked for my help, I could have done something for her. Instead, you violated the trust that has been placed in you, and it will be a slow road building it back. Do you understand that?”

“I do. I’m sorry.” Oscar closed his eyes, savoring the warm press of Wamba’s hand, feeling the slight pressure before he pulled away.

“I forgive you, and you should know I have asked that Wilfred not be informed of this incident. Heaven knows what he would have to say if he found out.”

Oscar could not deny his relief that news. “So that’s the end of it?”

“Well,” Wamba gave him a lopsided smile, “there’s still the matter of your debt. You’ll have to come to some agreement with Alard on that. Give him my best when you see him next, won’t you?”

Oscar laughed at that, though he felt suddenly quite exhausted. The hours of worry had worn on him, but he knew it was no more than he deserved. Once again, Wamba had taken his thoughtless blunder and worked his magic to contrive the best possible result. Oscar would not soon forget how quickly and willingly Wamba had taken the blame for his actions, putting himself between Oscar and punishment without even knowing his motive, whether the act was justified. Perhaps to him, it did not matter. That thought was even more humbling.

He could not voice these thoughts to Wamba, so instead he looked him in the eye and said simply, “Thank you.”


	42. Chapter 42

In contrast to their previous falling out, this time Wamba had no hesitation permitting Oscar back into his confidences immediately. He was back at his little table in the tribunal the very next day, though he was mindful to tread cautiously around Farren, whose glower suggested he would take much longer to warm to Oscar again. It was a fairly mundane morning of petty disputes.

Then the day took a more interesting turn when a knock interrupted Oscar’s usual afternoon review of his careful notes with Wamba. He answered the door to find a short page bearing an armful of scrolls, which he proffered clumsily to Oscar. “From the king, sir, for Lord Cedric,” he piped.

Oscar thanked him, taking the collection of weathered parchment from small hands. He nudged the door closed with his hip, carrying the scrolls to the table where he tipped them from his arms to fall atop his notes.

“These are for you,” he told Wamba, who was pulling his own notes from beneath the scattered mess with an unimpressed look. “What are they?”

“Well, without having read any of them, my best guess is that they are the missives his majesty promised me yesterday,” Wamba said. “Why don’t you open one and tell me if I am correct?”

Oscar grinned at him and quickly plucked up the smallest scroll, unrolling it and beginning to read. While his skills had improved dramatically, it still took him considerable time and concentration to read the slanted script and glean the key points of the letter. Wamba waited patiently while he did so, leaning back and folding his hands across his belly, elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

“Its from a place called Shropshire,” Oscar reported at last. “The magistrate there has received a complaint from a Lord Druet that his serfs are being abducted from his land.”

“Does it say how many?”

“No, only that he will look into it further.” Oscar let the scroll fall to the table where it settled in a halfhearted curl. “The other scrolls might have more details.”

“Indeed,” Wamba said with a thoughtful tilt to his mouth. “We shall have to read them carefully.”

“What is this about? Why does the king have you investigating missing serfs?” Oscar asked, settling back into his chair.

Wamba raised a dubious brow, and Oscar, recognizing the look, braced himself at once to be teased. “Surely you must know from your studies with the archivist that Shropshire sits side by side with Herefordshire.”

“And what do I care for Herefordshire?” he retorted, deliberately aloof.

“Come, Oscar,” Wamba chided him lightly, “does that name not ring familiar to you in the slightest?”

“Herefordshire,” he muttered, abruptly serious in the face of a clear test. Oscar dug back into his memory, frowning mightily with concentration, his expression making Wamba chuckle. He ignored the man, thinking hard until the at last the answer dropped loose from the stubborn clutches of his foggy recollection.

“Oh!” he breathed. “Hereford is where those slaves were bought!”

“Well done,” Wamba said. “I must say I had begun to worry for the soundness of your mind for a moment.”

“You’re the fool, not I,” Oscar smirked. “Everyone knows that.”

Wamba laughed, his head thrown back. “A truth I sadly cannot refute.” He fixed Oscar with a challenging glint in his eye. “I pray you, do my foolish head a kindness and tell me what all this means.”

“It means that the slaves that you freed were stolen from Lord Druet’s land, taken to Hereford where there was no chance they would be recognized, and sold to Alret.”

“That is the simplest explanation,” Wamba nodded, “but it is not the only scenario we must consider. There might be no link at all between these two things, though I believe that is unlikely. More alarmingly, it might mean that we have only seen the first of these illegal thralls. That group was within days of being transported beyond the reach of the crown. Without Merchant Martin to bring them to our attention, that could easily have been their fate. If there are others, they might yet be hidden somewhere in England, or they may have passed already beyond our shores.”

Oscar considered all of this, wondering absently how long it would take him to learn to see things as clearly as Wamba did, if he could even manage it. “How will we know?”

“Our first task will be to read these reports from Shropshire. After that, we will send to the magistrate there if we have questions. Ultimately, someone will likely be sent to see to this matter in person.” Wamba sighed. “The king is of the opinion that person should be me.”

“What?” Oscar exclaimed. “You’re leaving London?”

“If it becomes necessary,” Wamba said, though he looked unenthusiastic about the idea.

“Can I go with you?” Oscar asked at once.

Wamba smiled. “I will be sure to ask.”

The eager spark of Oscar’s excitement at this prospect was quickly doused by the reality of the plodding pace of bureaucracy. The remaining scrolls contained very little additional information, being primarily the regular reports that the king demanded of his shire officials. After combing through them all, Oscar knew only that Lord Druet had reported the first crop of serfs missing the previous summer but had been asked to provide proof that they had not simply fled, which he was unable to do. It had taken a further two disappearances for the magistrate to take the matter seriously, at which point he sent his original missive to the king.

Wamba drafted an official request for information on the number of the missing, the timing of the disappearances, the precise locations from which they had been taken, and the testimony of their neighbors. This was dispatched in the hands of a messenger, after which there was nothing to do but wait.

In the interim, Oscar managed to pay off his debt to Ivanhoe by midsummer, forgoing his full wage each month, though doing so did nothing to improve his relationship with Alard. He prudently avoided the steward’s office except when it was time for his monthly interrogation, during which he was sure to account for every farthing.

It was worse for irregular requests. Alard’s narrow glare was even more poisonous than usual when Wamba sent Oscar with instructions to fetch a chit for trousers and tunics to replace those he had outgrown. He was forced to endure a blistering litany of aspersions on everything from his appetite to his breeding, but the unpleasant man relinquished the note he needed in the end.

After the abuse heaped upon him by Alard, the cheerful face of the tailor’s assistant was like sunlight to his spirits. “Celia, wasn’t it?” he asked, giving her his most charming grin.

“Yes,” she returned with a delicate flush on her pale cheeks, “though I don’t recall your name.”

“I’m Oscar,” he said, offering his hand. When she took it, he flipped his grip, pulling her fingers to his mouth to place a quick, dry kiss on her knuckles. “Pleased to meet you again.”

Celia laughed, her flush bursting out all the way up to her sandy blonde hair as she pulled her hand away. “What can I do for you, Oscar?”

He handed over his chit, and was swiftly dispatched to the changing cupboard with new clothes to try, flirting shamelessly the whole way. Celia laughed at his antics, playing along with a sweet smile. It was pleasant, and he left the tailor’s closet with a smile on his face and a good cheer that lasted through the evening.

It was a week later that word finally arrived from Shropshire. Wamba was away in private audience with the king when the messenger delivered a fat letter with an enormous red seal, so Oscar put it to the side, waiting restlessly for his return. He tried to read his most recent book, but to no avail. He could not concentrate for more than a few words at a stretch. His patience had worn down nearly to the last thread, his hands itching to open the message and see what new information it contained, when Wamba finally appeared.

The young magistrate’s movements were slow and fatigued, his head bowed, and Oscar immediately forgot the letter in favor of seeing to Wamba’s comfort.

“What is it? What do you need?” he asked, taking Wamba’s arm and shepherding him toward the couch.

Wamba rubbed at his temple, letting Oscar guide his steps. “It’s just a headache. There’s a powder for it in the chest,” he said.

A few quick questions told him all he needed to know, and he quickly settled Wamba on the couch, a mug of warm wine with his headache powder added in his hand. While Wamba drank, leaning with his head resting on the back of the couch, Oscar sat beside him and tried to keep quiet. Now that the immediate concern was dealt with, however, the letter had once again taken over his attention.

“What’s got you so excited?” Wamba asked quietly.

Oscar guiltily stilled his hands, which had been tapping at the couch unconsciously. He looked over at Wamba, who peered at him from one dark eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that a letter has come. From Shropshire.”

That made Wamba open both eyes and sit up, visibly gathering himself, to Oscar’s chagrin.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read it.” Oscar told him, wishing he could take the words back completely until Wamba was more recovered. His concern must have been clear, for Wamba smiled wearily.

“Why don’t you read it now and tell me what it says?”

Pleased with this compromise, Oscar fetched the letter from the table and pulled open the wax seal. He quickly unfolded the parchment within and began to read, settling atop the table in front of Wamba.

It was quiet for a long moment, the crackling fire the only sound, while he read and Wamba drank his medicine.

“This magistrate is not very pleased with you,” he remarked at last. “I think he would prefer you to keep your nose out of his business.”

“That’s unfortunate but not unexpected,” Wamba sighed, eyes closed and body slumped into the couch. “These local officials can be rather territorial. No matter. He shall simply have to accept it, as his business became mine rather against my will.”

“I shouldn’t expect a warm welcome, if you go to Shropshire.”

“Did he answer my questions at least?” Wamba asked.

There are fifty serfs missing,” Oscar said, “and that first group was the largest, over twenty.”

“Those first would likely be Reginald’s slaves,” Wamba murmured, “which means we have some thirty still unaccounted for.”

“The serfs on nearby plots had nothing to add. They all swear they saw nothing, only noticed that their neighbors’ fields were untended some time later.”

“More unfortunate news," Wamba said. "Today is not my day, I think.”

Oscar unfolded the final third of the letter, studying the text there. “There’s a list of locations here. They don’t mean anything to me, but if we can get a map perhaps they’ll tell us something.”

Wamba hummed thoughtfully, his eyes still closed. “I think tomorrow we must consult your friend Clerewald.”

They went first thing the following afternoon, Oscar leading a much more energetic Wamba through the bristling stacks of books and scrolls to the archivist’s little arbor in the heart of the room. Clerewald was bent over his desk as usual, scratching a new line into one of the heavy bound tomes that housed the tax records. He looked up at Oscar’s greeting, frowning.

“What’s this? Oscar?” he called gruffly. “You were here not two days ago. Surely you’re not finished already.”

“No, sir,” Oscar said, “but we need to speak with you.”

“We?” the old man demanded. “Who is this we?”

“Good day, sir,” Wamba greeted him, following Oscar from the shadowed paths between the shelves.

“Ah,” Clerewald said knowingly, straightening and setting down his pen at last. “This is the mysterious master, then?”

Oscar shrugged. “Hardly mysterious,” he retorted.

Wamba shot him a look, and stepped forward to introduce himself. “My name is Cedric, master archivist. I serve the king as his magistrate.”

“I know who you are, lad,” Clerewald barked, “and I’ve meant to have words with you about your abysmal skills as an educator.”

Oscar flushed so rapidly it made him momentarily lightheaded. He opened his mouth to protest this slander, but Wamba spoke first.

He gave the old archivist a smooth bow, and said sincerely, “Please accept my apologies, as well as my thanks. I am most grateful for your contribution to Oscar’s education where I have been unforgivably lacking.”

Clerewald narrowed his eyes, assessing Wamba critically for a moment before he turned with a snort. “So long as you recognize it. The lad was quite shamefully ignorant before I got him sorted.”

“As you say,” Wamba nodded. Oscar did not miss the quick flash of a smirk that was thrown his way and mightily resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“What do you want from me?” Clerewald continued. “I doubt this is a social call, after so many months.”

“You are quite correct,” Wamba said. “I have come to beg your assistance in a small matter of interest to the king.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

The documents they were looking for were in the familiar eastern section of the room, the tall shelves stuffed with the scrolls that recorded the personal estates of the nobility. Clerewald pulled down the slender cylinder for Lord Druet, and he and Wamba returned to the table to examine it in detail. Oscar, meanwhile, ventured across to the maps, quickly finding and extracting that which depicted Shropshire. He laid it out across a narrow bench tucked between two shelves and scanned it closely until he located all the needed clues. There on the map, details of the locations described in the magistrate’s letter showed him a clear pattern.

Returning to the estate records, Oscar sorted through the scrolls, glancing at the name on each until he found the one he sought. He undid the tie and let it fall open, bracing the upper edge with one hand against a shelf as he perused the writing there. He knew at once he had found what they needed.

With the map in one hand and the estate record in the other, he returned to Wamba and the archivist.

“What about this fellow Avery?” he said, waving the scrolls.

It was so subtle, he might have missed it, had he not been staring at Wamba’s face as he asked the question. The man froze for a heartbeat, his eyes gone wide and distant in a pale face. Then he shook himself and turned his head to look at Oscar.

“What name did you say?” he asked quietly.

“Avery,” Oscar repeated, feeling a frown pinch his face. “His estates border Druet’s directly, at every point where serfs disappeared, and he has reported losses on his crops the past three years, according to the record. He has a motive, and he could likely send men into Druet’s lands unnoticed.”

Wamba and Clerewald took the scrolls from him, spreading them out on the table and confirming what he had told them. Finally, Wamba straightened.

“You’re right. Well done, Oscar.” Wamba smiled at him, the pride in his gaze making Oscar’s skin tingle pleasantly. “I suppose it’s time to take this to the king.”

Oscar was not invited to that meeting, which he agreed was probably for the best. Instead, he fetched supper and waited for Wamba to return. He was on his feet at once when the door opened, bouncing on his heels as he met Wamba’s gaze across the room.

“Well?” he asked eagerly.

Wamba smiled. “We leave in three days.”


	43. Chapter 43

“How long will it take to get to Shropshire?”

Wamba glanced up from where he was slipping folded sheets of blank parchment and his writing tools into a slim leather satchel.

“Four days, if all goes according to plan,” he said. “Farren wants to leave early and push for Oxford tomorrow. That will be the longest stretch.”

“How long will that take?” Oscar asked. He was seated on the floor beside his little chest, folding his spare clothing to fill his own newly acquired traveling pack.

“We should arrive by sunset,” Wamba said absently, digging through the pile of scrolls related to Lord Druet’s missing serfs and selecting one, which also disappeared into the pack.

Oscar opened his mouth to ask more questions, but he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Wamba did not even look up, still sorting scrolls in search of a something in particular. So Oscar pushed himself to his feet and went to greet their visitor. It was Celia, holding a neat stack of red and brown garments in her arms. She smiled brightly at him.

“Oscar! I had nearly forgotten you worked for Lord Cedric.”

“Hello, Celia,” he grinned. “How are you?”

“Ready to soak my fingers in ointment for a week after throwing this lot together in just two days,” she said wryly, hefting the armful of cloth. “I’ve never sewn so fast in my life.”

“I do apologize for the rush,” interjected a soft voice over Oscar’s shoulder, and Celia’s eyes widened.

“Your lordship!” she gasped, dropping a hasty curtsey. “Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”

“No need to apologize,” Wamba smiled, stepping forward as Oscar turned to give him room. “I’ve no illusions that what I asked of you was any small task. You have my thanks for putting yourself through such a gauntlet for my sake.”

He took her burden from her arms, carrying it through to the bedroom. Celia watched him disappear with a rather awed gaze, then leaned in to whisper to Oscar. “If you ever want to trade places, you only have to ask.”

Oscar smirked. “You’re not the first to say it.”

She giggled, then said more seriously, “That lot should fit him, but if anything needs adjusting, let me know.”

“I know where to find you,” Oscar winked at her, winning another laugh before he bid her goodnight and closed the door. He had barely turned when Wamba reemerged, looking supremely uncomfortable and pulling at his new clothes.

“Well?” he asked Oscar, holding his arms out for inspection.

The crimson tunic fell to Wamba’s knee. A wide leather belt gathered the bright cloth tight to his narrow hips, below which it was slit at front and back to allow him to sit comfortably astride a horse. The collar was high, as was his preference, but a narrow gap at his throat, no wider than two fingers, extended in a long vee down to the center of his chest, revealing a slice of the dark brown shirt beneath, the same color as the soft calfskin trousers which wrapped snug about his long legs, draped over the tops of his boots. The king’s crest was embroidered in bright gold across his heart.

Oscar’s throat clicked on a dry swallow. “Ha,” he coughed.

“That bad?” Wamba asked doubtfully, staring down his own chest. “Red never did suit me.”

“No,” Oscar choked, fighting desperately to bring his body under control. “They’re very fine. You look every inch the magistrate.”

Wamba hummed, tugging at the cuffs of his long sleeves. “I still don’t see why this was necessary, but as always I am at the mercy of his majesty’s whims. I trust you would tell me if I looked completely ridiculous.”

Once he was assured that no further tailoring was needed, Wamba quickly divested himself of the official regalia, stowing it away for their arrival at Lord Avery’s estate. They soon completed their preparations, a small collection of packs nestled together by the door, ready for their departure the next day. The anticipation thrumming through his veins kept Oscar from sleeping except in brief fits, tossing about in his small bed through the interminable night until at long last dawn gave him license to leap up and make ready.

Wamba smiled at his eagerness, taking one of the packs from him when he tried to shoulder all of them himself. Despite the burden, he hurried on ahead of Wamba down the corridors, headed for the stable yard. They entered the lightening yard to find Farren waiting with a yawning Clement, who held the reins of three saddled horses. While Wamba had a quiet conversation with Farren, Oscar smiled and greeted the other boy cheerfully, letting his packs slide off his shoulders to the hard trampled earth of the yard.

Clement nodded at Oscar in his serious way, and pointed at one of the beasts, a gentle-eyed roan. “She’ll be yours.”

“Mine?” Oscar asked doubtfully. He turned to frown at Wamba, who laughed.

“Do you mean to walk to Oxford, Oscar?”

Somehow, throughout three days of preparations, this possibility had never occurred to him, though it seemed exceptionally obtuse of him now. He had not the slightest idea how to ride a horse, had never even led one, much less sat atop one, and he told them so.

Wamba gave him a sympathetic look. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. If only I had thought of it earlier, you could have had a lesson or two.”

“Our road today is no leisurely promenade,” Farren rumbled to Wamba. “It may be kinder to leave him here.”

“What?” Oscar exclaimed.

“I won’t leave you behind if you wish to come along, Oscar,” Wamba soothed him, “but you should know your legs won’t thank you for it tonight.”

Oscar set his jaw stubbornly. “Devil take my legs,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”

Farren merely shrugged, taking up the packs Oscar has dropped and strapping them securely in place behind the saddles of their horses, while Wamba gave Oscar a quick lesson in how to mount his beast, showing him the correct seat and how to handle the reins. Swallowing his trepidation, Oscar stared into the docile eyes of his horse, working up the nerve to follow Wamba’s instructions.

“She’s sweet enough, is Mildred,” Clement assured him. “Just keep her behind one of the others, and she’ll follow along.”

The stable hand kept hold of the reins while Oscar stretched one foot up to reach the stirrup, jumping awkwardly on his other foot and scrabbling at the mare’s mane to heave himself up into the saddle. He leaned far over, balanced precariously on his stomach as he swung his leg over and finally sat up, questing for the other stirrup with a waggling toe. He sat petrified for a long moment once he found his seat, feeling the enormous beast shift under him, its barrel chest heaving like a great bellows in a vast sigh. He tightened his legs instinctively, and the horse danced in place, Clement firming his hold on the reins to still her.

“Try to keep calm,” Wamba said. “They are very astute at reading a rider’s emotions. You’ll give her a fright if you’re too nervous.”

Clement handed up the reins to Oscar, stepping back and leaving him alone. He tried to follow Wamba’s advice, but his racing heart refused to descend from the perch it had found in his throat. At Wamba’s other side, Farren had mounted his horse as well. He twisted in the saddle to stare at the stable doors.

“Where is that boy?” he grumbled.

At just that moment, a clatter of hooves announced a new arrival. Oscar craned his head to see his least favorite of the castle guard, Dunstan, lead a dappled gray horse from the stable. Catching sight of the captain’s disapproving glare, he quickly swung himself into his saddle, nudging the beast into a trot to close the distance between them.

“Ready, sir,” he said with a quick salute. He glanced at Oscar from the corner of his eye, and the two exchanged a chilly look. Then Oscar abruptly had no attention to spare for anything but remaining atop his horse, as Farren spurred his mount forward, and Wamba fell in behind. Mildred set off on her own initiative, and he clutched desperately at her mane again as he was jostled by her swaying gait. As they cleared the portcullis, he kept his eyes on the rump of Wamba’s animal, watching the swishing tail to keep his panic at bay, but he calmed quickly once he realized that Clement had spoken the truth. The horse knew what to do, and fell naturally into a stride that matched Wamba's, her head hanging low. This allowed Oscar to finally relax his desperate grip on the saddle, taking a gentle hold on the reins as he had been instructed, and raising his head to peer around for the first time.

The view of the city was completely different from atop a horse. His eyes were even with the eaves of the shortest buildings, looking down on the tops of merchant stalls and the heads of the people. Even more unusual, the crowd parted before them, clearing a path for Farren in his uniform and the party that trailed behind. Oscar found himself grinning as he compared this passage to the many times he had fought his way through the crush on foot. It warmed him to Mildred considerably, and he gave her a cautious pat on the neck, causing her to lift her head briefly and flick her ears back at him.

So fascinated was he by this new perspective, he hardly realized how far they had gone before the city gate loomed before them, a crumbling stone arch that marked where the city proper ended, and the furthest Oscar had ever traveled from his home. A quick frisson of elation ran through him as he passed beneath the arch, the world opening before him in an immense panorama. Humble dwellings of wattle and daub nestled close to the city wall, their inhabitants moving purposefully through the muddy lanes, while beyond, the road stretched out into open fields, more expansive than anything Oscar could have imagined.

He felt his mouth drop open, his eyes widening. He caught Wamba glancing over his shoulder at him, a fond smile on his face, and he grinned back, so elated he could hardly keep still. His head swiveled madly as they made their way through the countryside, the stony fields giving way to gently rolling hills and the clusters of villages to open meadows roamed by herds of curly haired sheep and dotted with the solitary homes of farmers and millers, waterwheels creaking ponderously as clear streams tumbled chattering through their slats. Overhead, birds darted and dove on occasion, their cheerful voices trilling in their wakes as they raced on into the distance.

The sun was high and hot above when Farren called a halt and the party paused for a short rest and a hasty meal beneath the shade of a stand of oaks. At Wamba’s urging, Oscar stretched his legs thoroughly, rubbing some of the creeping stiffness out of his back as he wandered further into the copse, mesmerized by the canopy formed by the great branches of the majestic old trees, the dappled shade that rippled as the leaves shifted in the gentle summer breeze. He was not permitted to linger for long. They were soon under way once more, and the road open enough at last to allow Oscar to ride side by side with Wamba, determinedly ignoring the growing ache in his rump and guiding Mildred with more confidence by the time the light began to lengthen and take on the burnt hue of dusk. The sky was just beginning to bruise with approaching night when they crested a rise and Oxford came into view.

From a distance, the town was dominated by the shadowy hulk of the great castle, its forbidding towers inky against the last of the light. Atop the walls, torches were springing to life, fiery stars appearing across the dark curtain of stone. They clustered also around the foot of the castle, multiplying like a swarm of fireflies as the streets were lit. As they drew near, Oscar could make out the individual shapes of thatched eaves atop dwellings of plain construction. Farren led them confidently into the heart of the town, tugging his weary horse to a stop at last in the yard of a long building with a wooden sign dangling outside that declared it an inn.

“I’ll see about rooms,” the captain said, dismounting and handing his reins to Dunstan, who had done the same. Warm light spilled from the door when Farren opened it, beckoning with the promise of comfort. He was longing madly for a hot meal and a welcoming bed, and swung his leg eagerly over to drop down and plant his feet on solid ground again.

“Careful!” Wamba’s warning came just a moment too late. No sooner had Oscar’s legs been asked to take his weight than his knees wobbled and folded beneath him, leaving him sprawled on the ground blinking up in bafflement at the underside of Mildred’s belly. She craned her neck back to puff a curious breath perfumed of hay in his face, the soft whiskers on her muzzle tickling his cheek. He pushed irritably at her head, sitting up with an effort.

“I warned you that your legs wouldn’t thank you,” Wamba said, handing his reins to a smirking Dunstan and reaching down to help lift Oscar to his feet. With his aid, Oscar managed to balance on his trembling limbs, though he was forced to lean on Wamba to prevent a second collapse.

“You didn’t tell me they would cease to work entirely,” Oscar muttered, glaring at Dunstan who was openly relishing his pitiful display. Wamba pulled Oscar’s arm over his head to brace the younger against his shoulder, and Oscar realized with a shock that he had grown taller than Wamba at some point, and could lean on him easily this way.

“Don’t fret. We’ll have a bath drawn for you and you’ll be decently recovered by the morning,” Wamba assured him, guiding him to take a first shaky step toward the inn. Farren met them at the door, looking Oscar over critically.

“I’ve secured two rooms,” he said to Wamba. “I suppose you want to keep this one with you?”

“It would probably be for the best,” Wamba agreed.

“Take him up, then,” Farren said. “I’ll make sure the horses are seen to.”

With Wamba’s help, Oscar slowly navigated the narrow stairs and was at length safely seated on a thin mattress in a small room with a sloped ceiling. A second bed stood against the opposite wall, and it was there that Wamba dropped his pack once he had deposited Oscar. The young girl who was their guide watched all of this with open curiosity, blinking at Oscar as he cursed and slapped at his useless legs.

“We’ll need a bath, I’m afraid,” Wamba told her.

“Yes, my lord,” said the girl. “The washroom is at the end of the hall. I’ll have water heated.”

“Excellent,” Wamba smiled. “You have supper on offer?”

“In the main room,” she nodded.

“That will do splendidly.”

The girl bobbed a courtesy and was swiftly gone.

“I’ll bring you up a bowl,” Wamba said to Oscar, rooting in his pack. He pulled out a long leather pouch, one of the medicines that Oscar had retrieved from Rachel for their travels. He offered it to Oscar. “Put a little of this in the bathwater. It does wonders.”

As he hobbled to the washroom, Oscar doubted anything would prevent him being permanently crippled. He grumbled as he extracted himself from his dusty clothes, but his mood improved considerably once he was soaking in the warm, herb scented bathwater, Rachel’s potion setting his skin singing in a pleasant tingle. He slumped down in the water, the relief at the ebbing pain making his eyelids hang heavy and his head droop. He had just enough presence of mind to climb out of the bath before he fell asleep and shuffle back to Wamba, absently eating the hearty stew he was offered before collapsing into his bed.

He slept like the dead, waking only grudgingly to Wamba’s insistent prodding the following morning. Though still weary, he could not deny that the bath bad worked a miracle, and his good humor was much restored. He was on peaceable terms with Mildred and once again enchanted by the countryside as they rode out from Oxford, asking Wamba every question that came into his head about the sights they passed and pointedly ignoring Dunstan. The journey was not as demanding than the previous day, and it was still early in the evening when they rode into Stratford. The town was much less impressive than Oxford, little more than a cluster of drab huts lining the edge of the river.

The inn matched the town, humble in comparison to the first lodging. He and Wamba were again housed together, in a much smaller room with barely space to stand between the two rickety beds, though it did boast a large window which they threw open to the cool summer night. The sheets were threadbare but thankfully clean, and Oscar met them gratefully. He fully anticipated the deep oblivion of dreamless sleep that had claimed him the previous evening. It was a surprise, therefore, to find himself wide awake and staring up at the full moon hanging in the sky, dawn still many hours off.

He had only a moment to wonder what had woken him before a soft whimper drew his attention across to Wamba. The magistrate was curled on his side, his face pale in the moonlight and pinched in quiet distress. One hand was thrown out, grasping at the bedclothes searchingly through the throes of whatever nightmare tormented him. Oscar turned to mirror his pose, tucking one arm beneath his head to study Wamba’s expression. He wondered if it would be better to wake him or let the dream pass naturally. As he watched, the seeking hand reached yet further, a tremble in thin fingers, and without thinking, Oscar reached out to catch it in his own. Wamba’s skin was chilled, so he folded his hand securely around it, hoping to offer comfort through touch.

It was as though a spell had been broken. Wamba’s face slackened at once, his shoulders releasing their tension, at peace in the simple reassurance that someone was there with him, watching over him. Oscar ran his thumb along the peaks of Wamba’s knuckles soothingly, and watched as that vulnerable youth he had spied once before settled over the dear features. His longing welled up within him without warning, stealing his breath. It had mellowed with the passage of time, the fiery passion settling into a steady ache, completely a part of him and so unremarkable as to pass all but unnoticed, excepting in moments like this, when it reared its head and caught him by the throat, demanding to be felt. He did not fight it, but let it wash over him, the warmth in his chest and his clasped hand lulling him gently back to sleep.

By the middle of the third day, the novelty and excitement of the adventure had worn entirely away, and Oscar was eager for their journey to come to an end. The fiery eye of the sun scorched his scalp each time they emerged from the shadowed cover of the trees, and his aching rump gave him no peace as each bump and jolt sent bolts of pain shooting up his spine. Birmingham on the third night was yet another muddy little collection of hovels with a drafty inn offering watery stew and thin pallets. Wamba was unperturbed, dropping his pack at the top of the musty mattress for a pillow and settling quickly to sleep. Oscar followed his lead, pounding his pack into an obliging shape upon which to rest his head and collapsing with a grumble. He glowered at the patchy thatch of the roof above, sure that he would not be able to sleep a wink and wondering absently if Wamba’s rest would remain undisturbed this night. Despite his dire predictions, his exhaustion won in the end, and he fell into a fitful slumber that shattered with the piercing crow of a cock in the yard at first light.

Wamba sent him down first to see to breakfast for all four of them. Oscar understood why when the magistrate appeared in his bright new clothing, earning a murmured comment from Farren that Oscar did not catch, occupied as he was forcing down his reaction to the sight, which was no less affecting for having witnessed it before. He steeled himself for the remaining stretch of their journey, the final bit of road that would lead them at last to their destination.

One more day in the saddle, and Oscar was so weary he could weep. All in all, it was a relief such as he had never known when late in the afternoon the trees parted and a high stone wall came into view, the crenelated peaks of a stout tower visible above the fortified gate.

“Is that it?” he asked Wamba hopefully.

“Yes,” Wamba said, his voice quiet and his smile tight. “We’ve arrived at the home of Lord Avery.”


	44. Chapter 44

Lord Avery came out to greet them in the courtyard.

They were freshly dismounted, handing their sweaty horses off to a pair of subdued stable hands whose gazes never left the ground, when a boisterous voice called out, echoing off the stone walls.

“At last, our illustrious guest has arrived!”

Oscar looked up from the packs he was fumbling to see an older man in an ostentatious robe standing atop the steps that led into the keep, his arms outstretched in welcome. He gazed down on them from above, his mouth curled in an arrogant smile beneath a graying goatee. The hair on his head has progressed further down the road to pure white, the bald patch at his crown glinting as he descended the steps and emerged from the shadow of the wall into the sunlight. He was stockily built, and seemed in good condition for a man of his age, excepting the round paunch that protruded out over his ornate gold buckle.

Wamba stepped forward to meet him, offering a bow and a perfectly expressionless mask. “My lord. I am Cedric. I trust from your greeting that our messenger arrived in due course.”

“That he did,” Avery said, his sharp gaze trained on Wamba. “Though I must say, when I received word of your imminent arrival, there was no mention that the king’s magistrate was so…” he trailed off, his eyes raking over Wamba’s form with blatant interest. “Young,” he finished at length.

Wamba’s face was wooden. “Alas, I can do nothing about my age, my lord. Let me assure you, however, that the king has full confidence in my abilities, else he would not have dispatched me here.”

“And what, pray tell, is it that you have been sent to accomplish?” Avery asked with an oily smile. “King Richard’s missive was scarce on those details as well.”

“It is quite straightforward, my lord,” Wamba said evenly. “It has come to the king’s attention that your estate has suffered significant and persistent losses these past years. He has sent me to ascertain what aid he might offer a loyal vassal. Perhaps your spell of ill fortune might be reversed.” It was the pretense he had agreed upon with the king.

“His majesty’s munificence is without measure,” Avery said. “Will you be staying with us long?”

“A handful of days, no more.”

“I am sure it will be a pleasure to have you,” Avery leered, and while he failed once again to shatter Wamba’s calm, Oscar bristled at this blatant provocation. He sidled up closer behind Wamba. From the corner of his eye, he saw Farren do the same, though it was to Oscar that Avery’s attention turned, one brow quirking.

“Will you not introduce me to the rest of your traveling companions, Cedric?”

Oscar met the curious blue gaze squarely, refusing to be cowed.

“My personal servant and my guards, my lord,” Wamba said shortly, waving a hand at them collectively.

Avery glanced briefly at Farren and Dunstan before he plainly dismissed them and his eyes returned to Oscar once again, looking him over with the same naked appraisal that he had previously turned on Wamba. Oscar shuddered, his skin crawling, but did not look away.

“If your curiosity is sufficiently satisfied, my lord, the road has been long and we would welcome a chance to rest,” Wamba said, a hint of steel in his voice.

Avery smiled narrowly. “Of course. My steward will show you to your chamber. Your soldiers will be comfortable in the garrison, I trust.”

Farren stepped forward, and it seemed as though he would protest, until Wamba reached out to place a quelling hand on his mail-swathed arm.

“That will suit us well, my lord.”

“Then I look forward to seeing you in the hall,” Avery said, and turned in a swirl of robes to disappear into the keep.

A small, round man Oscar presumed to be the steward stepped forward, offering them a wordless bow, an outstretched hand inviting them to follow. He waited impassively while Farren pulled Wamba into a hushed conference. Oscar hefted the bags on his shoulders, settling them more comfortably, only to startle and drop one when a hand clamped down suddenly on his arm. He swung around to glare at Dunstan.

“Watch it!” he hissed, jerking his arm from the young soldier’s gloved hand. Dunstan grabbed him again, by the collar this time, his face completely serious.

“Something’s not right here,” he said, looking around the courtyard.

“Yes, I’d noticed that, thanks,” Oscar muttered.

“Not just Lord Avery. The rest of the people as well.”

Oscar followed his gaze, surveying the scattering of blank-faced and silent servants arrayed about the courtyard. From the laundresses hanging sheets to the stable hands, all were remarkably subdued. Only the liveried guards seemed to have any spark to their movements, talking and laughing among themselves high atop the walls. Compared to the raucous noises of the constant activity in the king’s tower, the quiet in the yard was unnerving. Taking it in, Oscar found Dunstan’s misgivings completely understandable.

“With the captain and me in the garrison, you’re his only protection,” Dunstan said, fixing Oscar with a penetrating stare. “Be on your guard.”

“Alright,” Oscar nodded. “I will.”

“Come along, Oscar,” Wamba called. It was only when he turned to follow that Oscar noted the gates had been closed and barred behind them.

The chamber to which they were led was quite large, and more opulent in its appointments than Wamba’s rooms in the tower. Vibrant tapestries lined the walls, depicting scenes of lords and ladies at hunts and summer picnics. The bed was large and boasted a set of rich velvet curtains that could be pulled closed to shut out the light. There was no servant’s pallet, nor any adjoining chamber, so Oscar dropped his things beside the sumptuously padded couch that sat near the hearth. It was flanked by a matched pair of tall wooden chairs.

It was into one of these that Wamba fell, blowing a shaky sigh.

Oscar paused in his unpacking, going to Wamba with a worried frown. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Oscar,” Wamba murmured. “Lord Avery is being deliberately provocative, attempting to ruffle me. I must not let him.”

“Dunstan thinks there’s something wrong with this place. I think he’s right.”

“Suddenly friendly with Dunstan, are we?” A smile quirked the corner of Wamba’s mouth.

“If it’s between him and Avery, I throw my lot in with the person I can trust.”

“He was clever to separate us,” Wamba said, “but I promise I will not let any harm come to you, Oscar.”

Silently, Oscar made the same vow.

They had very little time to rest before they were summoned to the hall for the feast. This proved to be yet another unforeseen challenge, as Wamba was ushered to a seat to Avery’s left, and Oscar realized he was expected to stand behind and serve him. While he had observed Gregory and others about their duties in the king’s hall, he had never done anything of the sort. His mind reeled with the number of ways he could bungle this and embarrass Wamba in the process. He shot Wamba a panicked look, but the man just smiled at him, giving him an encouraging nod, so he took a deep breath and positioned himself between two other servants, glancing surreptitiously at his neighbors to imitate their posture.

The hall was not as grand as the king’s, but the lofty beamed ceiling was impressive to Oscar, as was the head table, which was crafted from a single massive piece of polished wood. Below it, two ranks of long tables had been pushed together to form a line down the center of the hall. Avery’s guards filled the benches on either side, and Oscar spied Farren and Dunstan at the far end, too distant to do more than exchange a nod. The silent servants haunted the hall like ghosts, floating about replenishing the dishes and flagons as they were emptied. There was only one other seat at the high table, and its occupant arrived late, interrupting the increasingly tense pleasantries between Avery and Wamba.

“He comes at last!” Avery crowed, slapping the newcomer heartily on the shoulder. “Cedric, this is my son Roger.”

“A pleasure,” Wamba said coolly, nodding to the other man. Even without the introduction, the resemblance between them was clear to see. If Oscar had been asked to imagine Avery twenty years younger, Roger was precisely what he would have described. His hair was dark and just beginning to thin at the crown, while the rest of him was broad and well-muscled, his eyes betraying the same hint of cruelty that lurked in his father’s smirk.

“This is the magistrate?” Roger sneered, pulling an entire leg of mutton onto his trencher. “He looks like a stiff wind would do him in.”

Avery gave a great guffaw, bringing his fist down on the table. It caused the dishes to rattle and, to Oscar’s utter surprise, Wamba to startle in his seat. He recovered quickly, but Oscar detected a minute tremor in his fingers as he reached for his goblet.

“I regret that I have failed to live up to your expectations,” he said blandly. “I shall add it to the list of shortcomings your father has thoughtfully compiled for me already.”

“It’s all in good fun, Cedric,” Avery told him, slapping him on the back, jolting him so that the wine spilled out over the lip of the goblet. Oscar stepped forward at once, leaning down beside Wamba to mop up the spill from around his plate. He stayed there longer than strictly necessary, letting his shoulder brush Wamba’s to remind him that he was not alone. It earned him a flash of a smile, where Avery could not see, and he stepped away feeling warmer.

The lord and his son spoke of nothing of consequence, but as the topic drifted from hunting to swordplay to horsemanship, they continued to prod at Wamba, casting doubt on his worth as a man with every jibe. He took each barb stoically, responding neutrally to most, though he occasionally interjectd his own biting retort, making Oscar smirk. After two hours of this, Oscar was exhausted just listening to them, and his stomach was growling. Wamba had eaten next to nothing, by his careful count, and Oscar could not blame him, but he wondered if he would have the nerve to brave the unknown castle to find them food later.

This was the first thing he asked Wamba once the meal finally ended and they were able to return to their chamber.

Wamba smiled, a hint of humor breaking through the dark cloud of his odd detachment, and Oscar was inordinately glad to see it, though he had no inkling what it meant.

“Do you want me to go and fetch something?” he asked again.

“I shudder to think what fate might befall you were you to venture out in this place at night,” Wamba said, dipping his hands into their opposite sleeves. “Fortunately, there is no need.”

Oscar blinked as he pulled his hands back to reveal three rolls stuffed with bits of sausage and two sizeable pears, evidently nicked from the high table. “How did you do that?”

Without warning, Wamba tossed everything in his hands into the air. Oscar made to leap forward and catch what he could before he realized what was happening, and gasped. With a deft turn of his wrists, Wamba snatched the pears and rolls from the air one by one and began to juggle them. Within moments, he had transformed the scattered mess into a mesmerizing pattern of flying food weaving itself in the air.

“A good clown has many useful skills.”

Oscar frowned, trying to follow the movements of Wamba's hands and failing. “I thought you were a jester,” he protested. “Don’t they tell jokes?”

“Words were also my playthings, certainly, but more skills than humorous tales are required of an entertainer. Catch!”

Oscar raised both hands, fumbling to snatch the pear that flew at his head from its dangerous arc. He barely had it in hand when the second followed. He caught that as well.

“Here’s another!”

A pear in each hand, Oscar saw little choice. He opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the sausage roll, stopping it mid-flight.

Wamba quickly caught the remaining two rolls, staring at Oscar in amazement.

“You’ve a talent for this, I think.”

Oscar set the pears down on the sideboard and pulled the roll from his mouth, chewing the bite he had taken.

“What else can you do?”

Wamba placed his rolls next to the pears. “Oh, most of it is long forgotten. This is all that remains, really.” He seemed almost sad, running a thoughtful hand over the polished wood beside the food. He gave Oscar a forced smile. “Eat your fill, then get some sleep.”

“You’re not having any?” Oscar demanded. Wamba had barely eaten at the feast, and now he was turning over all his spoils.

“Not tonight.”

“I can’t eat all of this,” he protested again.

“Then secret it away somewhere safe for later. I told you I would let no harm come to you. That includes letting you go hungry.”

Nothing Oscar said would convince Wamba to eat, so he set aside what he did not want and planned to try his luck again once Wamba had rested. He fell asleep on the couch before he could make an attempt. In the morning, one of Avery’s spiritless servants appeared to summon Wamba off to a tour of the estates. Oscar’s pleas to go along were denied.

“Farren will be with me, Oscar. There’s no need to worry.”

So saying, Wamba vanished out into the countryside and Oscar was alone and at loose ends in an unknown castle with servants who would hardly look at him, much less speak to him. He wandered around the castle, but learned nothing of note. His one victory was when he found the kitchens and managed to snatch some cheese and a few more pears to add to their hoard. He also commandeered a jug of wine and two wooden cups, setting them on the sideboard to ply Wamba with later.

By mid-afternoon he was desperate enough to seek out Dunstan in the garrison. The young soldier was practicing with his sword, facing off against a dummy of wood and straw, alone in the training yard. Oscar hailed him from a safe distance, and they spent an hour sitting in the shade while Dunstan emptied his water skin and told Oscar what he had discovered talking with the guards, which was not much. It was a disappointing start to their visit. Oscar could only hope Wamba was having more luck on his ride with Lord Avery.

When Wamba finally returned, he was pale and exhausted, falling to the couch and staring into the fire in silence with hardly a greeting. Oscar immediately brought him a cup of wine, adding a pinch of his headache powder for good measure.

“Thank you, Oscar.”

He waited, letting the wine do its work and watching Wamba’s shoulders drop. When he thought it appropriate, he ventured, “How is it out there? Are the people like those here?”

“They are worse,” Wamba whispered, and would say no more.

Dinner was much a repetition of the previous evening, Oscar standing and clenching his mouth firmly shut as Wamba was thoroughly demeaned by Avery and his son. By the end, Oscar’s nails were cutting furrows in his palms and his skin itched with irritation and he was sure he could not dislike Avery more. Little did know worse was yet to come.

Wamba was already in bed, and Oscar was reading by the light of the dimming fire, when the knock came. Cautious, Oscar rose and padded quietly to the door, easing it open just enough to peek around the edge. When he saw who was on the other side, he pulled it open further, trying to make sense of the sight.

It was a girl. Her white shift was tattered and dirty where it brushed her bare feet, overlarge and falling off one freckled shoulder. Wide blue eyes, strangely vacant, stared out at him through tangled strands of copper hair. Oscar stared back, speechless. Finally, she blinked, and said in a light, timid voice, “Lord Avery has sent me for your pleasure.”

Oscar gaped. Unable to muster a response, he backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on the child hovering in the doorway as he inched his way to where Wamba slept. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “Wamba. There’s,” he faltered, and started again. “Avery has sent someone.”

He was unspeakably grateful when Wamba did not wait for him to gather his wits, but sat up, blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes as he looked about the room, until they landed at last on the girl. Wamba was on his feet at once, distractedly allowing Oscar to drape him in the heavy robe Avery had provided as he approached the wide-eyed child with evident caution. They stared at one another for one long, frozen moment.

Then Wamba extended a trembling hand. “Hello. Would you like to come sit by the fire?”

Oscar’s alarmed stare slid from the child to Wamba. His eyes were dark and haunted, but his voice was gentle. The girl took a hesitant step forward, watching his hand as though it were a snake that might strike at any moment. Wamba moved back, and Oscar followed his example, uncertain how he might help.

In this way, one step at a time, Wamba coaxed the timid child to one of the chairs at the hearth. She climbed up without a word, her small feet dangling well above the floor. Wamba lowered himself to the stones before her, and sat back on his heels. Oscar stepped forward at once to protest, but Wamba stopped him with a glance. His dark gaze flicked to the sideboard behind him and back, a clear request. Oscar, relieved to have something to do with himself, poured out a cup of warm wine and pressed it into Wamba’s waiting hand.

The girl’s pale hands had a tight grip on her knees, but she took the cup when it was offered. Wamba passed it over with just his fingertips on the brim, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. Her expression never shifted. Wamba’s face, in contrast, was strangely haggard in the firelight, as though this were a ghost that had appeared before him.

“My name is Cedric. This is Oscar,” he said. His voice was still soft, but shaking now. “What is your name?”

The girl looked up at him through her hair. “Devy.”

“Devy. That is a lovely name.” He smiled gently. “It seems late to be wandering about. Though it appears Oscar was still awake. He is seventeen now. How old are you?”

“Eleven.” A small, strangled sound escaped Wamba’s throat. Oscar stepped up close behind him, and placed one hand on his shoulder. He was gratified when Wamba rested back against his shins, taking the comfort he offered, and remained there while he gathered himself to speak again.

“It is well past midnight now. What will your parents think of you being here at this hour?”

Devy gripped her cup tightly. “They died.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” Wamba swallowed. “Who looks after you now?”

“Molly.”

“I see. Does Molly know that you are here when you should be abed?”

“Yes. She sends me when the master tells her.”

Oscar tightened his grip on Wamba’s shoulder, trying to keep them both grounded. Avery was evidently capable of more cruelties than they had imagined.

Changing tack, Wamba asked, “Are you hungry, Devy?”

The girl stared at him warily through her veil of knotted hair. Finally, hesitantly, she nodded.

“Oscar, do you think you can spare something from your stores?”

“Of course.” He immediately brought food, offering Devy her choice of a pear or a slightly stale roll. She took the pear, nibbling at it quietly, watchful eyes following them all the while.

“What are you going to do?” Oscar whispered to Wamba, leaning down to speak into his ear.

“Whatever I must.” He forced a smile again for Devy, taking the core of the pear from her when she had finished. “Would you like to rest?”

Devy was immediately on guard again, regarding Wamba with bare suspicion now.

“I promise I will not hurt you, Devy,” he said quietly, with utter sincerity, “and neither will Oscar. You may have the bed all to yourself.”

Oscar was poised to argue, to insist that Wamba needed his rest as well, but in truth he knew that sleep would not come to Wamba again. Devy’s hopeful gaze was the last nail. Wamba helped her up into the tall bed, tucking the blankets around her tiny shoulders and pulling the curtains to secret her away, safe from harm for this night at least.

They sat side by side, staring silently into the fire. At some point, Oscar's eyes fell closed and he drifted to sleep. He woke some time later to find his head pillowed atop Wamba’s legs and a blanket draped over him. He turned his head to look up. Wamba was just as he had been, but in the dawn light seeping through the windows the shadows of his sleepless night were a stark reminder of the enemy they faced and the sick game he played.

Impulsively, Oscar reached up to smooth the tight furrow between his brows, startling him in the process. Wamba looked down at him, the weight of the responsibility he bore clear on his weary face. Oscar wanted very badly to kiss him, to be a source of strength for him.

Instead, he ran his finger down to the corner of the downturned mouth, pressing at the line there until it relaxed.

“You’ll stop him,” he said, full of conviction. “I know you will.”


	45. Chapter 45

Letting Wamba go off alone that day was harder than facing Alard after his theft. He would have done nearly anything to be allowed to accompany Wamba, to keep him safe from Avery, but again he was thwarted. He took comfort in the fact that Farren would protect Wamba with his life, and wandered out again to find Dunstan. They took turns at the practice dummy, though Oscar was hopelessly inept, and his clumsy strokes made Dunstan laugh until he had to take a seat or risk falling on his face. Against his will, Oscar found himself growing fond of the young soldier, though he held out hope it would pass once they were well away from Avery and back among normal folk.

Wamba was even more withdrawn when he returned that evening, his ablutions perfunctory, his eyes distant even when Oscar forcibly extracted him from his boots in order to brush the dust from them before supper. He remained so until they arrived in the hall that evening. Oscar entered at Wamba's heels as usual, but was forced to jerk to a sudden halt, just barely avoiding Wamba, who had come to an abrupt stop one step inside the door. He did not pause for long. He squared his shoulders and proceeded to the place on the dais reserved for him. The hesitation was enough to spark Oscar’s curiosity, and he looked around to identify the cause.

The hall was arrayed for the evening meal, though the difference caught Oscar’s eye immediately. The tables were not in their usual arrangement, but spread out in long diamond, capped on one end by the dais and open on the other to allow passage inside the newly opened space. In the center of this immense theater was positioned a small wooden frame bearing a strong resemblance to a prayer bench. This, too, was a mystery to Oscar, but the stool’s prominent position in the room gave him hope that its purpose might be revealed before the evening ended. He took up his usual position standing in attendance just behind Wamba, and braced himself as Avery opened his mouth to speak.

“Excellent. Now that our guest is here, we can begin."

“What entertainment are we to have this evening, my lord?” Wamba asked diffidently.

Avery’s eyes were bright with anticipation. “For you, I’ve arranged something very special.”

He clapped his hands, and the doors at the far end of the hall opened. Two liveried guards entered, holding a small, struggling form between them. It took Oscar a long, startled moment to realize that he recognized the captive.

It was Devy. She wore a plain gray shift, and looked as though she had been working the roasting fires, her hands and face grimed with soot. She fought weakly against the steel hands that held her, but it was a fight she could hardly hope to win, and as she was drawn closer to the wooden bench in the center of the hall, she stopped struggling and fell limp, weeping piteously.

Wamba brought his hands down hard on the table and rose to his feet, making Oscar jump. The resulting noise pulled the attention of the room, and there was a sudden stillness. Slowly, Wamba subsided to his seat again, and gave Avery beside him his darkest smile. “What do we have here, my lord?”

His teeth were bared. Avery, mistaking it for a smile, returned it. “I was told you did not find her satisfactory. A little punishment will give her reason to make a stronger effort in future.”

Wamba tapped his chin with one finger, observing the child, still held tight in an inescapable grip, her grave eyes turned to him in supplication. Then he spoke, and Oscar felt his face go slack.

“It is no fault of hers that I brought my preferred entertainment with me.”

Avery glanced back over his shoulder at Oscar with a gleeful light in his eyes. Oscar had to fight to keep his expression ruthlessly neutral, even after Avery had turned his smirk to Wamba again.

“Well, I see there is more of your father in you than I believed. I knew him well, you know. I counted him among my allies.” His eyes were narrowed now, gauging Wamba’s reaction.

“I was aware. He thought very highly of you.” Wamba’s tone was smooth and easy, but Oscar heard an echo of the haunted shadow that had darkened his features before the fire. In a flash, the strange mood that had engulfed Wamba since the spires of the castle had first come into view took on an entirely new meaning.

Wamba knew Avery. And feared him.

Oscar felt a brief surge of rage, quickly washed over by painful curiosity. There was still so much about Wamba that he did not know, any hint of it was intriguing, no matter how distasteful the source. Wamba betrayed little of his fear, crushing his vulnerability and attending to more urgent matters.

“In truth, my lord, I was quite happy for the courtesy, but having exhausted myself I was regrettably unable to enjoy it. I returned the girl so I might not be accused of theft, but it was my intention to ask if you might be so kind as to let me take her with me.”

Now Oscar could no longer contain his open-mouthed shock. Fortunately, Wamba had provided him a perfect pretense. Any who noted his horror would assume it was jealousy at the prospect of being replaced as the magistrate’s favored. Avery looked impressed at this unexpected boldness in his guest.

Wamba glanced at him sideways. “As a favor to my father, of course.” Avery laughed, and slapped a meaty hand heavily onto Wamba’s shoulder. Wamba did not cringe, so Oscar did it for him.

“She is yours. I suppose you object to your new girl being thrashed.”

“Quite so. She is little use to me blubbering like that, and none at all injured.”

Avery removed his hand at last, using it to throw a curt gesture at the men holding Devy. “She will be taken to your chamber. Fortunately, we have another troublesome child for our entertainment this evening.”

Devy was quickly dragged away. With no way to plausibly assure himself of her safety, Wamba would have to wait and hope that Avery would keep his word, and Oscar could see how it tormented him. In the interim, the promised entertainment was being hauled inside to replace her.

After the discussion over Devy, Oscar had a fairly clear idea of what purpose bench had, but he was unprepared for the sight of a boy his own age, dressed in the garb of a house servant, begging and weeping as he was bent over and strapped tightly into place across its beams. His hindquarters were bared for the beating, and soon heavy leather in the hands of the guards was ripping screams of agony from his throat.

It was to the background of this terrible spectacle that Avery turned to an ashen Wamba and said conversationally, “You do not seem to have the stomach for these things your father did, Cedric.”

“No. I admit I have never seen the appeal.” His voice was steady, but strained, and Avery was relentless as always.

“You know, I remember such a beating at Rotherwood. It was years ago, but I will never forget that one. Some miserable brat nearly lamed my horse, but that was not the worst of it. The wretch would not even take his punishment properly. He refused to make a sound. Not a grunt or a whine, just collapsed senseless.” Avery laughed heartily. “I thought we had killed him.”

Oscar's stomach turned over.

Avery smirked at Wamba again, inviting his guest to share his amusement. “Do you know him?”

Wamba gave a curt nod. “I am familiar with the story, yes.”

“I’ve gone and forgotten the little cur’s name. What was it again?”

“I believe he was called Wamba, my lord.”

Oscar felt the world slip beneath him as all the answers he had been craving fell into place. He felt a sudden urgent need to vomit.

“That he was!” A jubilant laugh, and another hearty blow to Wamba’s arm, and Oscar fought the instinct to tear the brute’s hands from Wamba’s person. He was aware that he was breathing heavily, the servants around him watching him warily, but Avery was not finished. “Do you know whatever happened to him?”

“It is my understanding that he suffered an injury, and no longer lives at Rotherwood.”

“That is a loss,” was Avery's reply. “He was a talented little whore, even at that age. I do hope whatever hole of a brothel he landed in his skills are being appreciated.”

This was all Oscar could take. Wamba had been fighting this, all of this, since they had arrived, and had told Oscar nothing of it, not when he had seen Devy and endured his own memories stirring, not when he had seen the bench and known what would follow. The boy being beaten was screaming, and Oscar heard his own voice rising in an answering wail.

Wamba was suddenly beside him, hushing him, making his excuses to Avery and removing them from the room. Oscar’s head spun dangerously as the uniform stones of the walls and indistinct flames of the sconces passed by in a blur, and he could not hear their footsteps for the roaring in his ears.

Finally, they were alone in their chamber, and Wamba was guiding him down onto the long couch, murmuring to him as he tried to calm Oscar's shaking hands. Oscar breathed deeply, feeling the suffocating poison of the hall expelled from him with each breath, and he was able to make out Wamba’s words at last.

“I am so sorry, Oscar. It should not have made you part of my lie. I have put you in danger.”

The anger returned with a sound like thunder. He viciously slapped Wamba’s hands away, jumping up to pace out his fury before the fire. “Why? How could you do this? Why did you lie to me?”

“What?” Wamba frowned. “Oscar, you misunderstand."

“No!” He could not let Wamba explain away his anger. He needed to speak his mind. “That was the master who was so dear to you?” he demanded. “A man who let his friends torture you for their amusement and use you for their pleasure? That was the man worthy of your love?”

Wamba rose at that, and tried to hold Oscar still. Unable to stop his angry march, Wamba stood helplessly as he spoke, hands open. “No, Oscar. He was not that man. He did not know. Avery never had his permission.”

The words were heartbreaking. “He could have stopped it.”

“Perhaps," Wamba conceded, "but I never asked it of him. Avery was his ally in a time when he had few, and as such was entitled to do as he pleased to a slave. That is what I am, Oscar. A slave. I am only ever for my master’s good. You must understand that.”

Oscar's strength drained from him in a rush. He could summon no more words. He fell back to the couch, and buried his face in the cushions, and sobbed. He felt Wamba’s slight weight settle beside him, and the familiar touch of a gentle hand on his hair, but he could not be comforted by it, consumed by the image of the boy in the hall, of Wamba that much younger, and a victim of that same cruelty. Of the haunted look in his eyes and the way it mirrored that in Devy’s, and what a fool he had been to fail to recognize the nightmare they shared. Oscar let his sorrow pour from him helplessly, for it seemed Wamba was incapable of doing the same.

A light footstep on the flagstones made Wamba’s hand pause. “Hello, Devy. There is no need to worry. Oscar has just had a bit of a shock.”

Oscar made an effort to calm himself, and pushed up until he was seated beside Wamba, suddenly very aware of his how close they were. Now that his anger was spent, he was left with a profound sorrow and fierce protectiveness that made him want to pull the beloved man close and keep him safe, since all evidence indicated he was completely incapable of doing it himself.

Wamba’s expression was kind, if not quite composed, as he welcomed his newest stray child. The exhaustion of the mask he had been forced to maintain over the past days, even when confronted with repellent scenes of tragedy, was writ clearly across his face, in thin lines of fatigue around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

“Are those your belongings?” he asked Devy, nodding at the small bundle clutched between her hands.

She nodded, watching him warily.

“Alright,” he nodded. “We should have enough blankets to make beds for three.”

A knock interrupted him. Oscar stood to answer it, but Wamba waved him away, going to the door himself. He opened it just far enough to trade words with whoever was on the other side. Oscar strained his ears, but could hear nothing but Wamba’s emphatic, “No.” A brief exchange followed, then Wamba closed it firmly and, alarmingly, turned the lock.

“Who was it?” Oscar asked, but Wamba just shook his head.

“To bed, both of you,” he said, and would hear no argument. Devy was once again ensconced in the great bed, Oscar settling on the couch, when there was another knock. Wamba turned sharply, facing the door as he might a wild boar preparing to charge, his arms spreading unconsciously to guard Oscar and Devy.

Oscar’s heart began to pound. He watched Wamba approach the door with measured steps, and again open it just enough to speak to the visitor, but not far enough that Oscar could overhear the words. The exchange went on for much longer this time, though Wamba’s tone remained firm, and at length he once again closed and barred the door. He stood with his hand on the lock, head bowed.

“Wamba?” Oscar called, concerned.

Wamba turned, looking at Oscar for a long, silent moment. Whatever it was he saw made him clench his jaw and square his shoulders, coming to some private resolution.

“Pack your things, Oscar.”

“What? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Please pack your things,” Wamba repeated, striding quickly to the bed and throwing back the curtains. Devy was awake, and he gave her a gentle smile. “I apologize, Devy, but you must get up now.”

She did as he asked without comment, pulling on her worn shoes and scooping her bundle of possessions up in her arms. Oscar was scrambling to do the same, throwing clothes and supplies into his pack.

“What are we doing?”

“You are going to the garrison,” Wamba said, peering at the tapestries that lined the walls. “Tell Farren we need the horses ready to depart at first light. Whatever he needs to do, make sure they are ready.”

“Me? What about you?”

“Here we are,” Wamba muttered, pulling aside a woven image of a maiden being chased by a hart and revealing a gap in the stones. “Devy, do you know the way through the servant passages?”

She nodded.

“Excellent. Would you show Oscar the fastest way to the yard?”

Another nod.

“Thank you,” he smiled, placing a gentle hand on her head. She did not flinch at his touch.

“Wamba,” Oscar insisted, “what about you?”

“I will follow you shortly, after I’ve gathered my things.”

“Let me help you,” Oscar said at once. “We’ll go together.”

Wamba stared at him for a moment, his eyes so soft Oscar felt his heart melt, then that same determination came across his face, like the shadow of a cloud on a clear day, and he shook his head.

“Someone needs to take my message to Farren. Devy does not know him, and you do not know the way. Between the two of you, you can do this thing for me.”

“But,” Oscar started.

Wamba stepped close, cupping a hand around the back of his neck. “Please, Oscar. Go. I will see you soon.”

Oscar fought with himself one moment more. It was no use. “Alright,” he breathed. “Come soon.”

“I will. I promise.”

Oscar only looked back once, as he let the tapestry fall.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archive warnings apply. See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Farren woke with a start, seizing the hands at his throat on deeply ingrained instinct and throwing his attacker down with a growl. He raised a fist, prepared to strike, when a familiar voice jarred him to his senses.

“Farren! Stop!” He blinked, frowning down at Oscar on his back on the floor, one wrist twisted painfully in the soldier’s grip, the other hand raised to ward off the threatened blow. The room was very dark, the only light coming from the banked coals of the fire, casting everything in red and black shadows, but Farren could see the fear on his face.

He released the boy, sitting up. “What are you doing here?”

“Wamba sent us,” Oscar told him, struggling to his feet. The whites of his eyes glowed in the darkness, wide with alarm. “He wants you to ready the horses. He says we must be ready to leave at dawn.”

“Did he say why?”

Oscar shook his head. “He would not tell me. He only bid us give you that message.”

Farren frowned, looking past Oscar, his eyes lighting on a small girl with copper hair and a ragged shift. He squinted, trying to place her. “The girl from the hall,” he realized at last.

“Her name is Devy. Wamba rescued her, but now we need to leave.”

“Where is he?” Farren sat up and pulled on his boots, leaning over to shake Dunstan awake as well. The young soldier snorted and flailed groggily at him before he recognized his captain. He sat up slowly, rubbing at one eye and frowning.

“He said he would follow. He had to gather his things.” Oscar was shifting nervously from foot to foot, and alarm bells immediately began to ring in Farren’s heart.

“How did you get here?” he demanded.

“We came by the servant passages. Devy knew the way.”

“Describe it to me.”

Armed with directions and his unsheathed sword, though he decided to forego his mail and its telltale jingle, Farren hurried as stealthily as a man of his size was able, through the complex warren of narrow passages that lay behind the walls of the castle. Dunstan was more than capable of seeing to the packs and the horses. Farren needed to find Wamba, and to discover what manner of devil’s bargain he had made, for there was no doubt in Farren’s mind that if Wamba had sent Oscar away it was with reason. Two days of witnessing with his own eyes what Avery had done to his people was more than enough to convince him that the man was capable of atrocities, willing to go to any lengths to obtain that which he desired, and what he had clearly desired, from that first moment in the yard, was Wamba.

The passages he walked were blessedly empty, and Oscar’s recollection of the path remarkably accurate. It was with some relief that he found the dead end he sought and approached the tapestry Oscar had described, the details just visible to his eyes, lit from behind by the fire in the guest chamber. He reached out to pull it aside, ready to snatch Wamba and run, when Avery’s voice filtered through the cracks, dark with intent.

“You only make it harder on yourself by resisting.”

It was a long moment before he was able to command his hand to move, easing the tapestry aside just a sliver, just enough to see. Through the small window he had created, his view of Wamba was in profile, his eyes closed and lip clamped between his teeth. The young man’s hands were outstretched, his palms pressed flat and elbows locked to brace him against the wall beside the hearth. The stance drew his blue tunic tight across his straining shoulders, but he was bare below the waist, and behind him Avery, clothed but for his rampant cock, which he was forcing into Wamba’s unwilling body as Farren watched. He was too late.

Farren’s first instinct was to charge in, to pull the brute off and cut him to pieces for daring to touch Wamba. He had taken a step forward, sword rising at the ready, when something moved beyond Avery. He squinted, and caught sight of a liveried guard standing beside the door, watching the repugnant spectacle before him with an amused smirk. Reason returned like the slap of cold water and Farren forced himself to survey the room, stepping carefully to the side until he spied another man, leaning against the far wall. A third man was sitting in the chair closest to Farren’s position, his shoulder just visible beyond the edge of its tall back. Three men, at least two in mail and armed.

“Out of practice, are you?” Avery taunted, pushing the rest of the way inside with a single sharp shove. Wamba winced, his head dropping to dangle between his arms.

Farren reined in his rage and forced his arm back down to his side, the tip of the sword dropping to the stones. One man he could take, perhaps even two, armed as he was, but three could almost certainly overpower him. Even if he survived, the risk was too great that one would be able to call for reinforcements. He could certainly not kill the lord of the keep and expect to escape unscathed.

He cursed himself for disobeying his instinct to bring more men. The king and Wamba had convinced him that too many soldiers would spoil their pretense. As a result, they now had only two fighting men, and one of those still green. Farren could not vanquish Avery’s entire garrison alone, and he was of no help to Wamba dead. That left him with the choice of endangering them all and stopping the abhorrent scene playing out, or knowingly allowing Wamba to suffer to see them all returned safely home. He knew with certainty what Wamba would want him to do. So Farren let his sword hang useless by his side, condemning himself for the most disgraceful coward as he resolved to intervene only if Wamba’s life was threatened, though it broke his heart to do so.

Not content to despoil him, Avery seemed to take joy in humiliating Wamba as well, making all manner of vile remarks.

“Surely you’re spreading your legs for that Norman pretender,” he taunted.

“The king has better uses for me, my lord,” came the toneless reply.

“I doubt that,” Avery scoffed, punctuating it with another hard thrust. “You must know your true calling is dancing on the end of a man’s cock. You’re wasted as a magistrate.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Avery sneered, gaining speed. “You do look quite fetching in the clothes. Does the king like to dress you up? Treat you like his little doll?”

“If so, he has not shared as much with me,” Wamba replied. His arms gave out suddenly. Avery’s weight forced him down to catch himself on his elbows, hands clenching into fists against the stone above his head as the relentless assault continued unabated.

Unable to watch, Farren let the tapestry fall, listening instead to the sickening slap of skin on skin, punctuated by animal grunts and Wamba’s occasional gasp, going on and on interminably.

“So good to have you again,” he growled. “I have thought of that night so many times.”

“As have I, my lord,” Wamba said, his voice rising to a cry on the last word.

It was the first true sound of pain he had uttered. Unable to stifle his alarm, Farren pulled the tapestry aside once more, and immediately wished he had not. Avery had Wamba bent at an improbable angle, his spine twisted in a sharp curve from where he was still impaled on the man’s cock to the fierce grip of a hand in his hair, holding him still for the vicious bite that was sunk into the meat of his shoulder, just where the tunic ended.

“As good as I remembered,” Avery sighed, releasing his grip and draping himself along Wamba’s back. He licked at the bloody mark he had left. “We should do this again.”

Wamba said nothing, head hanging low and chest heaving. His breath hitched and stuttered when Avery pulled away. He stayed where he was for a long moment, then pushed himself up from the wall, turning slowly to face Avery who was tucking himself into his trousers.

“By the way,” Avery said casually, “I forgot to tell you. I heard from my friend Reginald not long ago. He had some very interesting news to share. I’ll give him your regards in my reply.”

Wamba stopped still as if he had been turned to stone. Such a helpless rage rose in Farren that he thought he might be forced to fall on his sword there in the passage. It was so clear, looking back. Avery had planned this from the beginning. He had played ignorant, toyed with them all, escalated his provocation until Wamba was desperate and only then sprung the trap.

With this parting shot, Avery sauntered out the door, a satisfied swagger in his step and his men trailing in his wake, smirking at Wamba as they went. The moment the door closed, Wamba had turned, scrambling for the chamber pot. He retched, huddled on the hearth on his knees, hugging the battered brass vessel to his belly with shaking arms to catch the meager remains of his supper.

Farren moved at last, throwing aside the tapestry and crossing the distance to Wamba with a desperate urgency, though it was far too late to keep him from harm. Wamba shied violently at the sight of his boots, nearly toppling backwards, but Farren reached down and caught him by the shoulders. “Peace, Wamba. It’s only me.”

Wamba blinked up at him blearily, his face and neck shining with sweat. “How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

Wamba just nodded at that, dropping his gaze back to the mess he had made in the pot. “Oscar found you?”

“He did.” Farren knelt down to put them on even footing. “We will be ready to leave at dawn.”

“They are safe?”

“They are both unharmed. Dunstan is with them.”

“Good. That is good,” Wamba said distantly.

“What do you need?” Farren wanted badly to wrap Wamba up, to carry him away. Instead, he waited, giving Wamba the choice.

“You stayed,” Wamba said suddenly, as though he had just noticed.

“Of course,” Farren rasped, reaching out at last with a gentle hand. “When have I ever left you?”

A feeble smile tugged at the corner of Wamba’s mouth, though it was too frail to survive long. He deliberately placed the chamber pot aside, struggling to rise to his feet with Farren’s aid. He staggered to the washstand, and Farren noted for the first time the long weals that marred the pale skin of his legs, angry and inflamed. Farren’s heart cracked anew, to see evidence of this further indignity heaped upon the brave young man.

As ever, Wamba’s pragmatism won out when his emotions failed him. “We should not tarry. If we can be away at first light, we should have at least a few hours before they send men in pursuit.” He took up the cloth in the water bowl, swiping it gingerly between his legs. Farren turned to give him at least the semblance of privacy, cinching up the half-filled packs on the bed and looking around for stray items.

“Where are your clothes?”

Wamba pointed to the couch, where his dark leggings and boots were tucked against one of the arms. Farren picked them up, fingering the thin wool of the leggings doubtfully.

“You don’t want something more durable than this for travel? Where are the new ones?”

Wamba laid the cloth aside, staring at his abraded hands as though he might find some wisdom in the cuts and scrapes the stone had left. “He was right,” he said softly. “No amount of finery can disguise what I am. I can never escape the truth of it.”

Farren turned him around by his shoulders, forcing the young man to meet his eyes. “What you are, Wamba, is a good man, one of the best, and you are correct. Nothing can hide that.”

“That is kind of you to say,” Wamba took up his clothing, sliding the leggings on slowly and tying the laces on his tunic closed to cover the mark on his shoulder. He sat stiffly to pull on his boots, but no sooner was the second in place than he was reaching for the chamber pot again, spitting up bile as his body continued to reject the memory of what had happened.

Farren watched helplessly, a bitterness in the back of his throat that burned with the familiar taste of regret. At length, Wamba was able to gather himself enough to scrub at his face and rinse his mouth over the washbowl. He turned to Farren with a forced smile and asked, “How do I look?”

“He’s going to suspect something,” Farren said, cutting to the heart of the question, “but I will tell him nothing.”

Wamba’s smile turned genuine, just for an instant. “Thank you, Farren.”

He had never felt less deserving of thanks.

By the time they reached the garrison, streaks of dawn were painting the sky and Wamba was moving more naturally, forcing his limp away by sheer will. Oscar was on him the moment they entered the yard, grasping at his arms and demanding to know the reason for his delayed arrival.

“I got turned around in the castle,” Wamba told him lightly. “It was a lucky thing Farren found me or I might be wandering those passages still.” The boy seemed to accept this explanation, scolding Wamba for the worry he had caused.

Farren bit the inside of his cheek, and threw the last of the packs to Dunstan to secure. He offered Wamba his hand when it was time to mount, but was warned away with a glance. Instead, he stood by and watched Wamba pull himself up slowly and settle into the saddle as though it were fashioned of thorns. He sat very still for a moment, breathing shallowly, then opened resolute eyes and took stock of their situation.

“Farren, can you take Devy?” he asked evenly, sounding nearly like his usual self. If Farren had not witnessed the truth with his own eyes, he might have been fooled into believing Wamba’s lie.

“Of course.”

The girl was mistrustful, watching him warily as he approached her, so he went down on one knee to offer her a hand.

“Hello. We weren’t properly introduced. I am Farren, and I swear on my honor that I will do you no harm.”

She regarded him with wide blue eyes, looking to his hand and back to his face before she finally reached out and tentatively placed her small palm in his. He swallowed down his sorrow that such a small child had such cause to fear a strange man, putting a smile on his face for her.

“Is it alright if I pick you up?”

He waited for her nod before he lifted her under the arms, depositing her on his horse’s neck with care. He swung up behind her and pulled his cloak around her small body to keep her from the early morning chill. Then he bellowed for the guards to open the gate. It was a long, tense minute waiting to be granted passage, but soon the yard was filled with the creak of the great doors and they were off. He set a hard pace, one which had the inexperienced Oscar clinging desperately to his horse’s mane, but they had no leisure to coddle him.

They pushed on that way for the first hour, and which point the horses began to grow fatigued, and he at last slowed, allowing them all a rest. Wamba was pale and shaking, but he kept his back straight and his head high. Devy had drifted off in Farren’s arms, cocooned safely in his cloak.

“What will you do with her?” he asked, pulling his horse close beside Wamba's.

Wamba looked at her small, white face, untroubled in sleep. “I have a thought, but I will need your help.”

“What sort of help?”

“I mean to send her to Coningsburgh.”

“You want me to take her now?” Farren frowned.

Wamba nodded. “Everything she knows is behind her. She’s frightened and uncertain. It will be better to get her settled as soon as possible, rather than taking her all the way to London only to send her away again. Coningsburgh will give her peace, a place to heal. Once we reach Shrewsbury, I’ll write a letter for the Lady Edith. If you make a start today, you should only be a day or so behind us for London.”

The last thing Farren desired was to leave Wamba now, but he saw the sense in the words. It was the kindest thing to do, and he was the most qualified to see it done. They reached the county seat of Shrewsbury by mid-morning, and made immediately for the guildhall. The hostile magistrate there had to be convinced of Wamba’s identity, and once he had perused the official papers became even more sour, though he grudgingly allowed Wamba the use of his table to compose a letter. Farren set out to purchase needed supplies from the nearby market, returning shortly to find him still at work.

“Dunstan has gone to the garrison,” he informed Wamba. “He will have a retinue provided to accompany you back to London.”

“Thank you,” Wamba said, his quill scratching along quickly. “This is nearly ready. You should be away as soon as possible, just in case we have been pursued.”

“You will go directly back to London?”

Wamba looked up. “I will speak with the magistrate today, and be off in the morning.”

“You put yourself in further danger,” Farren said, a hint of a growl in his voice that he could not contain.

“If I leave without seeing this matter through, he has won,” Wamba said quietly, his eyes imploring Farren to understand. “I can still complete my task.”

Farren scowled. He had the power to order Wamba back to London, but he could see plainly what it meant to the young man to justify the trust that had been placed in him. Grudgingly, he conceded. “One day. Tomorrow you must be gone from this place.”

Wamba's smile was true. “Thank you.”

Farren set off as soon as the wax on the letter was dry, with a parting wave to Wamba and Devy once again held securely to his chest. They stopped at a humble roadside inn for the night, then rode through the following day, arriving at Coningsburgh just after dusk. The ancient castle’s elegant white stone walls were bathed in torchlight, surrounded on all sides by the black lace of the trees. Devy was asleep, held secure and warm beneath his cloak by one arm, while the other guided the reins of his exhausted horse.

They were in luck, for the Lady Edith had not yet retired for the evening. She met them in her private hall, tall and dignified with her gray hair in two long braids down her back. Farren delivered Wamba’s letter into her hands at once, stepping back with a bow. She was inscrutable as ever while she read, though she looked up at Devy, standing nervously against Farren’s leg, several times before she fastidiously folded the parchment again.

“I trust another letter will be forthcoming,” were her first words.

“He assured me that was his intention,” Farren told her. “His brevity was only a matter of the limited time afforded him to compose this message.”

“Then you may inform him I will grant his request.” She looked down at Devy again, nervously tugging at strands of her hopelessly tangled hair and glancing around her new surroundings. The lady’s eyes softened, just a touch. She held out a hand. “Come, child. I am Edith, and this is your home now.”

Devy looked up at Farren, who gave her an encouraging nod. Silently, Devy stepped forward, away from Farren, and took the offered hand.

He spent the night in a spare bed in the guard quarters, and was off again at first light with a fresh horse provided by the lady. During the night he had come to a decision. He would not be returning to London just yet. Wamba had sacrificed himself for all of them, won their safety and found solace for a battered child. It was time to see to his.

Farren turned his horse east, toward Rotherwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic non-consensual m/m sex (rape).


	47. Chapter 47

A scream pierced the air. Tiny feet pounded through the grass, stumbling in desperate flight, but the child was too small to escape the man who pursued him.

“Got you!”

Strong arms scooped the boy into the air, little hands flailing as Wilfred lifted his son up and buried his face in the small crook of his neck, growling like a beast. Hereward shrieked in delight, kicking and squirming in his father’s arms.

“Mama! Help!”

"Do you mean to devour our son, husband?" Rowena asked. She was seated on a long wooden bench that had been transported into the garden for her comfort. Her auburn hair spilled over one shoulder in a long, shining braid. She wore a rich silk gown, nearly the same shade as her hair and accented with a chain of woven gold that swung down to brush her belly, swollen with child.

"It is the duty of a good dragon to strike terror into the hearts of tender young morsels such as this," Wilfred returned laughingly, though he did set his son carefully back on his feet, allowing him to run to his mother. He hid his face in her skirts, until she picked him up to cradle him against her side. Wilfred seated himself on the woolen blanket spread at Rowena’s feet, gazing up at his family with a contented smile.

The summer days were long and peaceful at Rotherwood. The birth of his son had marked a turning point for Wilfred, from adventurous youth when glory and the affairs of the king took precedence to a more settled period of responsibility and the happiness of being with his young family. His time in London had been curtailed of late, in favor of settling into the life of a country thane, though of course he was at the king's disposal and made himself available when needed. Eventually, in a few more years, when his children were of an age to be educated and he would need to begin the search for a suitable knight to squire out his son, he would be obliged to return to the court and its dealings. For now, he was content to enjoy his provincial existence.

"My lord?"

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the arrival of one of the youngest soldiers from the garrison.

"Yes, Harold? What is it?"

"My lord, you have a visitor," said the boy.

"A visitor?" he frowned. "Unannounced?"

"He's from London, my lord. He asked to speak with you immediately."

"Did he not give you his name?" Wilfred asked, standing and brushing bits of grass from his linen tunic.

"Oh!" Harold squeaked. "He did, my lord. He called himself Farren."

Wilfred's gaze met Rowena's, her jewel blue eyes wide in surprise and betraying a faint trace of alarm.

"He is alone?" she asked.

"Yes, my lady,” Harold stammered.

"Bring him here at once," Wilfred commanded.

Rowena set her squirming son on his feet, allowing him to run off again in search of some garden lizard or other treasure to amuse him. "He sent no word?" she asked her husband.

"None. Whatever news he brings, I doubt it is pleasant. I can speak with him elsewhere. I would not wish you to be distressed.”

“Nonsense,” she sniffed. “The affairs that are important to you are important to me, and I would hear his news also.”

Wilfred smiled, wondering again that such a lady had chosen him, that they had found their way together at last after so many years of adversity and separation. His reverie was stalled by Farren's arrival. The big man was road stained and weary, his cloak hanging limply off one shoulder. He bowed to them both. “My lord. My lady.”

“Farren,” Wilfred greeted him, offering him an arm, which he clasped in a firm grip. “What are you doing so far from London?”

“I’ve just come from Shropshire, my lord,” Farren said, “from the estate of Lord Avery.”

“Avery!” Rowena exclaimed, her delicate features twisted in distaste.

Wilfred heartily concurred with her unspoken revulsion. “What were you doing in the lands of that barbarian?”

“I was accompanying Wamba, my lord. He was sent by his majesty to investigate a spate of missing serfs in the vicinity.”

“To Avery?” Wilfred asked again, unable to quite contain his incredulity at this turn of events. "The king sent Wamba to Avery?"

“Yes, my lord."

"Why on earth would he do such a thing?"

"As I said, my lord, it was to discover the cause of the disappearances. The visit did not go as planned.”

A warning prickle of alarm raced down Wilfred’s spine. “Where is he now?”

"Making his way home. I came only to say that your presence in London would be most welcome, my lord, if you are so disposed."

Wilfred's breath caught on a growing foreboding. “What happened?” he demanded, dreading the answer.

Farren’s eyes darted to Rowena. “Perhaps it would be better if we discussed this later, my lord.”

Rowena’s eyes narrowed. “Do not treat me as if I am ignorant of the ways of the world. If Wamba has been harmed, you will tell us both.”

“Apologies, my lady,” Farren rumbled with a shallow bow.

“Speak, man,” Wilfred said.

Farren nodded. “Very well. On the third night of our visit, Wamba sent Oscar to wake me and bid me prepare to leave at dawn. I was concerned that Wamba had not accompanied him, so I went to seek him out. I found him with Lord Avery, engaged in most brutal coitus.”

Rowena’s hands flew to her mouth to cover her gasp, her face gone white. Wilfred placed a hand on her shoulder at once to steady her, though it was for his own benefit as much as hers. His heart clenched tight with sudden pain.

“Are you sure?" he asked. "He let Avery have him?”

“Yes, my lord.” Farren said.

“Why?”

"I did not ask. There was precious little time to speak."

Wilfred considered what he had been told, a single niggling doubt in the back his mind. Though it pained him, he forced himself to ask, “Farren, did he seem to you in any degree,” ill at ease, he completed his thought with a vague wave of his hand, “amenable?”

“Wilfred!” Rowena gasped.

Wilfred persisted, not taking his eyes from Farren. “You know what I mean to ask.”

Farren did. “He was quite violently ill, my lord, the moment Avery departed, and again once he had put himself to order, though he showed little sign of it once we took to the road.”

Wilfred felt his shoulders slump, uncertain whether to be relieved. “Thank you. You understand I must ask.”

“Of course.” Farren said, though his voice was chilly, and Wilfred expected he did not, in fact, think the question justified. “That is my message. With your leave, my lord, I will retire to the garrison. If it is your intention to ride out to London, I will happily accompany you. Otherwise, I will plan to depart in the morning.”

“You will depart in the morning, Farren,” Wilfred said, making up his mind, “and I will go with you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Farren said, and his voice had warmed. With a bow, he excused himself.

When they were alone but for their son, Rowena turned to look up him. "Your question was unkind, husband. You know he would never willingly betray Cedric."

Wilfred sighed, and dropped down again to the blanket at her feet, leaning a suddenly aching head on her knee. "It is three years now since my father’s death, my love. That is more than enough time for any man to grow lonely."

"I do not doubt that he is lonely,” Rowena said, voice gentle as the hand that stroked through his hair, “but he is also steadfast. Even if he were to forsake Cedric's memory and take another lover, why should it ever be that monster, of all men?"

"You are correct, of course," he said, fighting the creeping horror. "I was deceiving myself, hoping that it was other than it seemed for my own sake. I cannot bear the thought."

Rowena hummed, rubbing at her swollen belly, where their second child kicked within her. He looked up at her thoughtful face, turning to follow her gaze to where Hereward was digging intently in the dirt at the base of a young willow.

“What is it?”

She was silent for a long moment, then at last she reached to take his hand in hers. "He will need you, Wilfred,” she said meaningfully,” and you will give him whatever he needs."

He heard the implication of her words clear as day, and turned surprised eyes to her delicate face, fine features set in a stern expression. "I would never betray you or the vows that we have made to one another."

Rowena smiled, threading a hand into his hair to brush it back from his face. "It is no betrayal if I give you my blessing, and I can think of no better cause. We owe much to Wamba, both of us, and it would not do to be selfish or fastidious when it is within our power to give him needed comfort."

He gazed at his beautiful wife for a long moment, as in love with her in this instant as he had been when he defied his father for her. He knelt up to place a tender kiss on her lips, and she tilted her head to welcome him, their hands resting together on her rounded belly. "You are a saint among women, my love."

“You do well to remember it,” she said softly, though she could not quite summon the levity her words wanted. “Take care of him, Wilfred."

“As you command, my lady.”

Wilfred rode out with Farren the following morning. Rowena was at the gate to see him off, Hereward watching intently from his place in her arms. Wilfred bestowed a heartfelt kiss on each of them, his hand lingering over the lovely curve of his wife’s abdomen. “I will be back before the babe is born,” he promised.

“We will be waiting for you,” Rowena said.

He kept his eyes on his family until the great wooden gate closed between them. Then he turned his eyes and thoughts to London.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_Wilfred was pulling on his gloves, on his way out to the training yard, when he came face to face with his father. The bailey door opened just as Wilfred made to exit, the Saxon appearing on the other side. Their eyes met, and Wilfred scowled. He had been studiously avoiding Cedric since their latest argument one week past. As a young knight of twenty-one, Wilfred was eager to make his name, and convicted that the most expedient way to do so was in the service of the king and his plans to form a new crusade to reclaim Jerusalem from the conqueror Saladin. Cedric thought little of the Norman king and his foreign ambitions, and would not tolerate his son to betray his blood and his duty. He had gone so far as to threaten to disinherit Wilfred that time. Wilfred had not taken it well, and they had been ignoring one another since._

_He was immediately thrown, therefore, when his black look was met with a bland smile. "Wilfred. How fortunate. We were just speaking of you."_

_The young knight looked past his father to catch sight of the unknown man standing there, and the reason for the unusually warm greeting became clear. "I see. I don't believe I'm familiar with your visitor."_

_"This is Lord Avery, scion of one of the noble Saxon houses of Mercia."_

_"I was not aware you had allies that far to the West," Wilfred remarked glibly._

_"We have had a correspondence for some years, but this is his first visit to Rotherwood," Cedric said, eyes narrowing in warning against further rudeness. "Avery, this is my son Wilfred."_

_"What an impressive young man," Avery said, nodding at Wilfred, who returned a stiff bow. "He is to your credit, Cedric."_

_"I would be more compelled to agree with you were he to be less inclined toward dreams of foreign glory in distant wars and occupy himself instead with aiding in the battle to reclaim that which has been stolen from his forbears."_

_Wilfred forced his face to remain calm despite this provocation. The argument was well tread ground between them, and he was disinclined to open himself to further public chastisement, though it rankled to take let the accusation pass unchallenged._

_"You are unconcerned with the plight of Saxons in this country, Wilfred?" Avery asked, every appearance of innocence in his tone but there was a glimmer in his eye that hinted at a malicious intent._

_Wilfred chose to sidestep the question. "My father and I do not completely agree on what sort of leadership is needed in this country to produce a strong, unified whole, my lord," he offered instead._

_"And as he is of a contrary mind, there is no need to include him in our discussions," Cedric interjected sharply. "Come. I can offer you refreshment inside."_

_"Perhaps young Wilfred could be entreated to take my son along with him,” Avery said. “He would no doubt find our talks equally tiresome." He waved a hand at the boy beside him who Wilfred had only just noticed. He was just on the cusp of adolescence, no older than twelve by Wilfred's estimation, though he displayed all the signs that he would one day share his father's bulky frame. He and Wilfred regarded one another doubtfully._

_Cedric must have sensed this, or he was concerned with his ally's son being subverted by his own, for he shook his head. "Unfortunately, Wilfred is full grown and not ideal company for a child of Roger's age, but perhaps my clown might serve as an acceptable playmate. He's quite mad, but most diverting because of it."_

_Wilfred's jaw clenched unconsciously at the offhand mention of Wamba. It was nearly a year since Wamba's madness had taken hold, though Wilfred was still unclear as to the cause. He knew only that he had returned home to Rotherwood after his first tournament season as a true knight and a new acquaintance with King Richard to find the shy, serious boy he knew transformed into a chattering magpie and installed in the jester's chair behind the dais that had sat empty for all of Wilfred's life. His furtive query to the swineherd Gurth was met with an unintelligible grunt and a dark glower, and he had not pursued it further. He knew only that Wamba was changed and collared, and their quiet nights reading together in Wilfred's chamber a thing of the past, as Wamba was called upon to be at Cedric's disposal._

_The proposal was evidently agreeable to Avery, as Wilfred spied the two boys later. Wamba was the smaller of the pair, though they must be nearly the same age, throwing sticks in the yard for the mangy mongrel that belonged to the Gurth. Roger jumped in surprise when the large beast lolloped up to him and dropped his damp toy at the boy's feet. Wamba grinned, just a touch manically, and called, “No fear, friend. He does not bite, excepting that you attempt to share his dinner."_

_Wilfred smirked and walked on. He did not think of them again until much later in the day, as the castle gathered for the evening feast to welcome Avery, who took his seat to Cedric’s right. That seat would rightly have been Wilfred’s, but that Rowena sat one beyond, and the Saxon was determined that she and Wilfred be offered no opportunity to speak with one another. So Wilfred’s seat was forfeit to the visitor, and he settled instead to his father’s left._

_"I am afraid my son has not yet returned from wherever it is he wandered off to,” Avery remarked casually as he reached for his goblet._

_"So, too, my jester," Cedric noted, his brows drawing down in displeasure._

_"I have sent my man to find him," Avery said. "Perhaps he will locate your slave as well."_

_This prediction proved accurate, for no sooner had he spoken than the doors at the end of the hall opened and Avery's liveried guard entered, holding both boys by their scruffs and marching them into the center of the hall before the dais. They were covered head to toe in dirt and bits of hay. Wamba looked contrite, but Roger looked terrified._

_“Ah, here we are,” Avery said casually. “Where did you find them?”_

_The guard stopped just short of the dais, still holding both boys firmly. “They were in the stables, my lord, trying to calm your horse. I do not know what they did to provoke him, but he was in a panic. Nearly lamed himself trying to kick down the wall.”_

_“Playing mischief on my horse? Surely you know better, Roger.” Avery’s voice was smooth, but Roger swallowed and stared at his boots, shaking under his father’s calm scrutiny. “I see you shall have to be punished.”_

_Avery glanced at his guard, looming tall and fearsome behind the boys. He waved in his son’s direction, and the large man immediately took a firmer grip on Roger, who cringed away and whimpered. Wamba watched this with a tilted head and eyes bright like a curious bird. Then he looked up at Avery and chirped, “I pray you, my lord, do not punish him for a fault not his own.”_

_The guard stilled at Avery's raised hand. Cedric and Avery both stared at the young jester, though where Cedric's gaze was narrow in warning, Avery's was intrigued._

_"Explain yourself, fool," Cedric growled, his hands clenching on the arms of his chair._

_"My lords, I must confess. It was I who caused the steed fright. Roger holds no blame. Indeed, had he not been there to pull me from beneath the beast’s hooves, I might have suffered quite terrible injury.” He scuffed his boot contritely on the stones, glancing up at the dais through lowered lashes._

_“Well,” Avery smiled, “that is a different story.” He nodded to his man, who released Roger to take hold of Wamba instead, shoving him the last few steps to the dais._

_Wilfred jumped and Cedric blinked in surprise when Wamba was thrown down on the table before them. The jester quickly pushed himself up on his hands, only to lose his balance and fall to the table top again, scattering a plate of grapes, when the man behind him shoved him down with a rough hand on his back. The people seated around the hall gasped, a murmur rising as they watched this spectacle unfold._

_Wilfred could hear them, but he not see beyond the tabletop directly before him, where one huge hand crushed Wamba to the wood, while the other produced a wicked leather strap from some secret pocket. Avery’s man took a step back, and Wamba had just enough time to push himself to his elbows and take a breath before the first blow fell. The force thrust him forward into the edge of the table, which shuddered. At the end of the table, Rowena shrieked, but from Wamba there was no sound. His face had settled into a fixed mask that did not flinch or waver, even as the lashes continued to fall, with the full strength of the bull of a man behind them._

_"Will you not stop this?" Wilfred demanded of his father, turning his incredulous gaze on him._

_"The injury was to Avery. He has the right to decide the punishment." Cedric was clearly uncomfortable, but whatever reservations he had were not enough to compel him to intervene._

_Wilfred’s fist on the table was shaking with the force of his constrained rage and disbelief. He glanced over to see Rowena pale with horror, and out to the hall where the people of Rotherwood sat transfixed. It was a few moments later that Wamba showed the first sign of breaking down, his arms collapsing and his chest sinking to the tabletop. A sweat had broken on his brow and his hands, one of which lay beside Cedric’s plate, trembled. Still, however, he made no sound and his wooden expression hardly flickered._

_"He does not deserve this. You know he does not," Wilfred insisted, a note of entreaty in his voice that he had not turned on his father in years._

_"Be still," Cedric barked._

_“Harder!” Avery yelled, enraged that the harsh punishment had yielded no response. His man complied, dealing blows that rocked the table and sent a goblet toppling. Finally, Wilfred saw Wamba’s breathing quicken, for just a moment, and he collapsed. His legs went limp and his body began to slide from the table. Avery’s man struck him again._

_“Enough!” It was Wilfred who stood, rage burning in his chest. “Can you not see you have beaten him senseless?”_

_"I am not so easily convinced,” Avery said conversationally. “This could easily be an act."_

_Even as he spoke, Wamba slid from the table completely, and collapsed in an untidy heap on the floor._

_“It is not.” Wilfred said with venom in his voice. He stalked around the table and picked Wamba up as carefully as he could manage. The boy was tiny in his arms, and Wilfred made sure to turn his face to his chest as he carried him from the hall. He stalked through the corridors, his angry pace slowing as the rage receded and made way for the helpless pain that always accompanied seeing Wamba this way._

_Regrettable though it was, he was not unaccustomed to tending to Wamba after a punishment. Cedric was quick to anger and merciless when he was crossed. Wamba had landed on the wrong side of his master's temper more than once, earning regular visits to the gatehouse for lengthy conversations with the tools of correction therein. Most of those were Wilfred's own doing, as he employed Wamba as a go-between for his love letters to Rowena. Opposed as he was to their romance, Cedric had punished Wamba more severely each time he was caught, though in truth he was merely an unfortunate pawn in the battle of wills between Wilfred and his father. The beatings were meant as a deterrent for Wilfred, and they had worked._

_Laying Wamba on his small pallet in the cell he shared with Gurth, Wilfred checked him quickly for any serious injury, but found only the expected welts and bruises. He covered the boy with a blanket, wishing he would open his eyes, but Wamba remained quiet and still. Like this, Wilfred could see the child he knew in Wamba still, the jester fallen away._

_It had been many years since he had held any faith in his father, since his adamant refusal to allow Wilfred and Rowena to love one another as they wished, his unconcealed willingness to sacrifice his own son's happiness for the sake of his grand designs to unite her ancient Saxon bloodline with that of Athelstane. He had still believed Cedric to be a moral man, however, and not one given to diffident cruelty enough to allow his servants to be brutalized in order to please an ally. That day, carrying a broken Wamba from the hall, Wilfred had felt the last shreds of his hope that he would ever reconcile with his father fall away. It was less than a month later that they had their final argument, and he left Rotherwood to answer the king's call for knights to follow him to the Holy Land._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic depiction of child abuse. Wamba is 12.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Wilfred barely waited for the invitation to enter before he strode into the king’s private study. Richard, seated behind his large table with a few densely filled leaves of parchment before him and a goblet at his elbow, glanced up at the knight curiously. “Wilfred. I was not aware you had returned to London.”

“I have only just arrived.”

Wamba, seated facing the king, looked up as Wilfred came to a stop beside his chair. His wan face went even paler as he realized, no doubt, precisely what errands Farren had been about on his way back to London.

“What is it that bring you to me with such urgency?” Richard asked.

“You sent him to Avery?” he demanded, the bitter incredulity that had been bubbling for days boiling over at last.

The king gazed up at him with frank surprise at the icy tone and the stony set of his jaw. Richard pushed himself from his seat, a frown on his brow and a question on his lips, when a quiet voice interjected, “I went freely, Wilfred.”

Wilfred barked out a contemptuous little laugh. “You went freely into Torquilstone as well.”

Wamba appeared to shrink, white-faced and wilting beneath Wilfred’s fury. Richard, displeased by the sudden tension between two men who had never so much as disagreed in his presence, brought his hand down sharply on the table, breaking the knight’s concentrated glare. “What are you two at each other about?”

Forcibly taking control of his anger, Wilfred lowered himself slowly to the chair beside Wamba. “It was dangerous for Wamba to go there. Avery came to Rotherwood on several occasions. He bore Wamba an ill will, and was responsible for one particularly vicious beating he suffered.”

Richard studied Wilfred’s dark scowl. Wamba’s fingers tugged at the cuffs of his sleeves, a telling nervous habit. “Was this beating deserved?”

Wilfred moved to speak, but Richard held out a hand to stall his defense. Wamba took a breath, and finally met the king’s eye. His voice was steady. “I confessed to the crime for which I was punished, but I did not commit it.” Wilfred took a sharp breath. “I misled my master to save Lord Avery’s son a punishment which he clearly feared. The cruelty I witnessed this last week has shown me that the effort was wasted. The son has become as brutal as his father.” There was no resentment in his soft words, they were merely a statement of fact.

“What were you doing there?” Wilfred demanded.

“Calm yourself, Wilfred,” Richard said. “I sent him to learn what he could of a particular mystery that has come to our attention. Serfs are being sold as slaves, some here in London.” The king tapped the pile of parchment before him. “We were just discussing what he learned, before your interruption.”

Wilfred frowned. “Is the mystery solved, then?”

“I am certain Lord Avery is the culprit,” Wamba said. “He is unspeakably cruel to his serfs and servants, but his soldiers are well fed and given every comfort. He delights in expensive wines and rare trinkets. His extravagance has put him at heavy disadvantage to a number of debtors. In addition, poor supervision of his estates has let whole crops go to waste, rotted or looted in his storehouses. He is on the verge of ruin, and has been seeking other means of securing coin. It is not only his neighbor’s serfs that he sells, but his own as well. If they resist, they are imprisoned, or killed. For the last year, he has been courting a union with a wealthy rival, a marriage between his son and the daughter of Lord Hastings, no doubt to make play of that fortune as he has done his own.”

Richard looked again to the careful catalogue of observations Wamba had recorded. “I think I have understood the situation. Once I have read these in full, we will discuss our next course of action. Thank you, Wamba.”

Dismissed, the young man rose slowly from his chair, making to leave. Wilfred caught his wrist as he turned. “You will come speak with me tonight.”

Dark eyes drowning in apprehension met his briefly, flicked away. “Yes, my lord,” Wamba nodded, and Wilfred released him, watching as he walked stiffly from the room.

Wilfred spent several hours with the king, then returned to his chambers to bathe the dirt of the road from his skin and wait. The knock came as expected at dusk, and the door opened at his invitation, just far enough for his timid visitor to slip inside. Looking at his friend properly for the first time, Wilfred felt a knot of sympathy tighten his throat. Wamba was near to breaking. His ashen skin clashed sharply with bruise-dark shadows around eyes drowning in shame. Eyes that could not meet Wilfred’s. He was reminded vividly of being in this position with Wamba before, of the times Cedric had let the heat of his ire get the better of him, lashing out before he asked for an explanation, hurting Wamba needlessly in the process.

The knight felt the anger he had been holding dissolve into helpless pain. He needed first to listen before letting himself react. Closing the distance between them, he raised a hand very slowly, registering Wamba’s small flinch as he laid his palm against the younger’s cheek. He sighed. “You have not slept. Nor eaten, I suspect.” He brushed his thumb gently along the dark stain of exhaustion beneath Wamba’s eye. “Come, I have had a meal brought.”

Wamba followed him to the small table before the fire, seating himself where he was directed and obediently taking up the spoon before him. Wilfred settled opposite, content to eat his own meal and watch surreptitiously while Wamba picked at the dark bread and stew. They ate in silence for a while, Wilfred observing every bite Wamba took until he was relatively sure the young man had reached his limit. Only then did he ask, gently, “What happened?”

Wamba fell perfectly still. He placed his spoon down neatly beside his bowl, and folded his hands in his lap, preparing for an unpleasant interrogation. He fixed his gaze on his uneaten food.

“He knew me,” was the soft reply. Dark eyes flicked up to Wilfred’s, and back down. “He knew how to provoke me. There was a girl, you see. Devy. She was sent to me the second night, on Avery’s order. She is eleven.”

“That villain,” Wilfred growled.

Wamba swallowed hard, and nodded. “I suppose I should not have been amazed, knowing him as I do. I kept her with me that night, hoping to safeguard her from harm, but Avery learned of it. She was brought to the main hall the following evening, to be punished for failing to appeal to me. I believe such spectacles are his usual evening entertainment.”

“That has not changed, then,” Wilfred sighed.

As he watched, Wamba’s fingers began to tremble. “I did not wish to watch her beaten for my refusal. Perhaps it was better that I had not, but I asked Avery to give her to me. He agreed, in the end, and she was spared, but another child was brought in her place. I had no means to prevent his punishment. It was much like it was at Rotherwood. It was then that he began to taunt me with the memory of that day. It was by his words that Oscar learned of the incident. He became distraught, and I took him back to our chamber. Devy was there.”

A nauseated look passed over his face, and Wilfred wondered if it had been a mistake to force him to eat before asking him to recount the tale. “She was unharmed?” he asked.

“Yes.” Wamba pressed on. “It was not very long after that a servant arrived. Avery sent him. To ask for Oscar.”

Wilfred swore, knowing with dread certainty what Wamba was going to say next.

“I refused, but the same servant returned again, insistent. So I sent Oscar and Devy to the stables to find Farren and prepare to leave at first light. I was alone when Avery came.”

“Why did you not go with them?”

Wamba shook his head. “The castle is fortified. We could not have quit it in the middle of the night without someone raising the alarm. We had only Farren and one other as our guard. An attempt to flee would have put them all in danger. I was not willing to risk their lives, risk letting Oscar fall prey to Avery, or returning Devy to a life I had promised to end.” He laughed, a hollow sound. “Avery was easily convinced to accept a substitute. He prefers submission without restraint. That, too, has not changed.”

Wilfred felt ice seize his heart. “He has done this to you before?”

Wamba turned his face away, shame bringing a weak flush to his pallid cheeks. “Yes. Once. After you left Rotherwood. It was punishment for my silence.”

Stunned, Wilfred asked, “Did my father know?”

“He was not aware at the time,” Wamba said quietly. “I told him of it, many years later.”

There were so many questions Wilfred wanted to ask. He wanted to demand why Wamba had gone without sufficient guard, why he had agreed to go at all, but accusing the young man would only add to his anguish. It was clear from his appearance that he was punishing himself with recriminations enough without Wilfred’s condemnation being heaped upon him as well. Wamba could barely lift his head, so wretched was he with remorse. As Wamba’s friend and perhaps the only one who could comfort him as he needed, Wilfred decided that his duty was to repair what damage he could, and dismiss his judgment for a time when it would be directed at the true villain.

“Wamba.” His voice jerked his companion out of a prolonged contemplation of the fire, though the young man still would not meet his eyes. Quietly, he asked, “Was it the first time, since he died?”

He knew he had guessed correctly, even before the terse nod, as Wamba’s eyes instantly filled with tears. Watching him struggle to rein in his agony, Wilfred felt his own eyes sting in welling sympathy. Wamba had held tight to the claim that Cedric had left on him, making a shield for himself of the last remnant of that security and love. Avery had managed to take something from him that could never be restored. Rowena’s soft face came to him, insisting that he do whatever he must. He saw now that she had known better than he what Wamba would need. He could not return what had been stolen, but he could help to lance the wound and allow Wamba to heal.

“Wamba,” he said softly, “please look at me.”

It took a long moment, but at last Wamba was able to meet his eye across the table, wiping at his cheeks.

Taking a breath, Wilfred made his offer. "I am not my father, but would it help if you stayed with me tonight?"

He knew he had not imagined the terrible longing in that look, but Wamba's eyes dropped away again almost immediately. His head bowed in resignation. “Your lady,” he protested faintly.

“Has given me strict instruction that you are to receive any comfort of which you have need."

He reached out to brush the young man's hair from his face, cradling his chin in gentle fingers. "If you wish it, Wamba, and only if you wish it, now or later. You are under no obligation to me."

Wamba looked up at him, a few tears escaping as he studied Wilfred's face.

"I wish it.” The whisper was so faint Wilfred almost missed it.

“What did you say?” He needed to be certain.

“I wish it,” Wamba repeated, more forcefully, and stood. He stepped around the table, placing himself before Wilfred. “Please.”

The knight rose as well, standing toe to toe with Wamba, and lifted his arms to pull his friend into a tight embrace. “Alright,” he said softly, close in Wamba's ear. Wamba’s breath hitched. His hands clenched in the back of Wilfred's tunic, borrowing his strength, and the knight gave it willingly, letting Wamba pour out his grief until at last he calmed enough to lift his head. He looked up at Wilfred, a plea in his dark eyes.

It was many years since they had shared this comfort, but the kiss was warm and familiar, with a tinge of the protectiveness that Wilfred felt still surging within him. There was no passion between them, but there was love. Wilfred’s anger and Wamba’s need were all the spark that was required to spur them together. Wamba's lips parted without prompting to allow Wilfred to press inside, taking control. One hand rose naturally to cradle Wamba’s head, holding him steady for the gentle invasion as Wilfred lapped at his mouth. Wamba surrendered with palpable relief, letting Wilfred guide him.

Wilfred did not release his mouth until he felt the tension leave the thin body in his arms. Only then did he step back and carefully begin to pull open the heavy tunic Wamba wore, brushing away the hands that rose to help him with a quiet command. Tunic, leggings and boots were swiftly stripped away, baring pale skin to Wilfred’s appraisal. Rage bubbled anew at the marks on Wamba’s body, the long weals where leather had bit and the individual points of bruises on his hips, left by restraining hands. He swallowed his fury before laying his own hands on his young friend, fighting down the instinct to wipe away the foul claim of those marks with a forceful claiming of his own.

Wamba’s apprehension had returned, painstakingly quieted fear reawakened unwittingly by the anger in Wilfred’s expression. The knight sighed, and ran a hand over Wamba’s flank in a slow caress.

“Listen to me, Wamba.” He made certain Wamba was looking at him as he said, "You can change your mind. At any time."

Wamba smiled, though it was a weak, tremulous thing. "Thank you, my lord, but I am sure."

Wilfred did not bother to admonish him for the title, as he normally would. If it comforted Wamba to think of the difference in their stations now, to feel safe in the hands of one who possessed the strength to shelter him, Wilfred would not censure him for it. He looked so painfully vulnerable, laid bare and exposed before Wilfred, and clearly conscious of that fact.

“Come, then.” Wilfred led him to the bed, pulling the furs aside to guide him down atop soft blankets. He left Wamba briefly, to divest himself of his own garments and to retrieve a small vial from his pack. He placed it on the bed table, watching Wamba track it with dark eyes. Those eyes returned to him again as he climbed up beside the prone form. Wamba kept his arms at his sides, hands clenched tightly in the bedclothes, while his legs bent and opened obediently at a touch as Wilfred moved between them.

“Are you torn?” he asked, as gently as he could manage.

Wamba’s throat moved in a swallow. “I don't know."

“What do you mean?”

“There was blood,” Wamba confessed, “but Rachel says it is nearly healed.”

He hooked his hands under Wamba’s knees to lift them higher, baring him to Wilfred’s scrutiny. He felt Wamba tremble, and ran a comforting hand up one quivering thigh. "Just let me look." Wamba bore the examination with closed eyes and a dark flush of shame blooming across his face and throat.

There was no visible injury there, but Wilfred knew not all wounds were obvious to the eye. He reached down to probe gently at the little furl of flesh, dry and soft beneath his thumb. Wamba gasped at his touch, his body clenching in instinctive defense, though he forced his muscles to relax a moment later, letting Wilfred do as he saw fit.

Satisfied, the knight pulled his hand away and laid a quick kiss on Wamba's raised knee. "You are whole, but we will be careful, just in case there is some injury I cannot detect."

He crawled over Wamba to take his mouth in another warm kiss, eagerly welcomed. It was the best potion he had for comforting Wamba’s fears, conveying his care through the gentle motion of lips and tongue. He stayed there for long minutes, pressing and retreating in a sweet dance that gradually left Wamba boneless and breathless. Only once the young man was soft and pliant beneath him did Wilfred reach for the waiting vial, letting Wamba watch as he coated his fingers in clear oil.

These he placed between Wamba’s legs, rubbing in patient circles, his eyes never leaving Wamba’s face. The young man looked back at him, trusting as he nodded. Wilfred smiled, and pressed one finger inside. Wamba’s body arched back at once, exposing his neck as his legs folded to press in against the knight's shoulders.

“Alright?” he asked, his voice dark and his body coming alive. It would take a more stoic man than he to watch such a lovely sight as Wamba slowly unraveling this way and remain unmoved.

“Yes,” Wamba gasped. “Please.”

Wilfred gave him what he asked for, pressing another finger in to join the first, working them slowly as he took hold of Wamba’s cock. This earned him another gasp and a shudder that raked through Wamba’s entire body, vibrating up Wilfred's arm. Forcing his own need from his mind, he focused on Wamba, seeking out the secret places within him that brought him the most pleasure while he caressed his sex, steady and patient until long minutes later Wamba gave a broken cry and spilled over his hand.

He waited while Wamba came back to himself, panting lightly and staring up at the ceiling, then slowly withdrew his hands. He leaned up once more to kiss Wamba, a caress that demanded nothing, matching the slow pace of his contentment. “Is it enough?” he murmured against Wamba’s lips.

Wamba stared up at him, eyes gone soft and liquid and still very close. “Please,” he breathed, and Wilfred kissed him again, cutting off the rest of the appeal. He would not force Wamba to beg.

It was a matter of a moment to slick himself and press slowly, gently inside. Wamba’s breath hitched, his hands sliding up to burrow beneath the pillow that cushioned his head and brace there as he gradually took Wilfred's length. The knight held his gaze, never letting him look away, keeping him anchored in the present as Wilfred built up a rolling rhythm that left them close enough for their chests to brush when they drew breath at the same moment.

It was not long before Wilfred found himself surrendering to the pleasure of Wamba’s body, though still he kept his movements controlled, his hands careful. He pulled Wamba close, snaking his arms beneath the thin form to hold it to him tightly as he lost himself, spilling himself inside and marking his claim. At that moment, Wamba discarded his final inhibitions at last, closing his arms around Wilfred's shoulders to cling to him fiercely.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the voice just penetrating through the fog of pleasure that still engulfed Wilfred's mind.

In response, Wilfred kissed him again, a soft peck on swollen lips, before he carefully pulled away, falling to lie at Wamba's side. They stayed that way for long minutes, letting their bodies cool, then Wamba heaved a sigh, and pushed himself up from the bedclothes, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Wilfred reached out with one lazy hand and caught his wrist.

“Sleep here,” he said, tugging gently at Wamba’s arm. Wilfred's grip was loose enough that he could easily escape it if he wished.

“Oscar will worry,” Wamba said softly, but he did not move to stand.

“He can survive one night without you,” Wilfred said. “Stay here with me. Rest easy, for one night.”

That was all it took to entice Wamba back into his arms. He was fragile enough still that he could not resist the comfort Wilfred offered, but folded himself gratefully back into the bed. Wilfred shifted to his side, letting Wamba tuck himself into the curve of his body, the pale gold head nestled beneath his chin. “Thank you, my lord.”

Wilfred had just enough presence of mind to pull the furs over them before sleep rose up and claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex.


	50. Chapter 50

It was nearly dawn and Oscar was worried.

In truth, he had been worried for days. The return to London had been very different to the journey out. Farren had disappeared on his own mission, taking Devy with him, and been replaced with a full complement of a dozen soldiers from the Shrewsbury guard. Traveling with this entourage, they made slower time, the specter of Avery hanging over them a constant threat, receding only gradually as the days passed and it became clear they had not been pursued. Thrust suddenly from rearguard into a position of unanticipated responsibility, Dunstan had become serious and decisive, directing the borrowed soldiers to form regimented lines around Wamba and Oscar and setting them watches each night, his manner perhaps unconsciously mimicking Farren’s.

Wamba, meanwhile, had become quiet and withdrawn, his eyes distant and his posture stiff as they rode. He slept little and ate even less. Though the lodgings they chose were comfortable, Oscar woke more than once to find the bed opposite neatly made, no sign that it had been put to use, and Wamba wandered off to some corner of the inn, scratching cramped notes onto sheets of crumpled parchment. Oscar had employed every method he could devise to entice Wamba to eat, cajoling, joking, threatening not eat himself, but all for naught. Whatever Wamba had seen in Avery’s lands, for he adamantly refused to share the details with Oscar, haunted him to such an extent that Oscar could not reach him, but was forced to watch him grow more and more drawn as the journey wore on.

It was an immense relief to see London rise into view over the horizon on the sixth day out from Shrewsbury. Oscar hoped that a return to his customary surroundings would shake Wamba loose from his melancholy, give him time and space to come back to himself. Riding through the tower gate felt like coming home, freedom at last from the lingering threat of Avery, with the promise of familiar comforts close at hand. Their rooms were dark and cold, but Oscar immediately set about lighting fires and making them more welcoming. This task complete, he next procured a hot meal for them both of hearty fare, as well as water for a bath. Wamba ignored the first, but gratefully received the latter, disappearing into the bedroom and staying there for the remainder of the evening. Oscar decided to accept it as a partial victory, and ate Wamba’s portion as well before he fell blissfully into the embrace of his own bed, with a depth of appreciation that he could not have previously imagined.

Wamba’s odd behavior carried on into the following day, when he vanished off to an unexplained errand in the morning, then returned only long enough to collect his ream of notes before he departed again, disregarding yet another meal that Oscar tried to press on him. Disheartened, Oscar returned the tray to the kitchens and began to make his way to the stables when he happened to glance out into the yard and catch sight of a familiar figure.

“Farren!” he shouted, changing his course to intercept the big soldier, who turned at his call. His uniform was fresh, but his face was more lined than usual, as though he too had passed restless nights on the road. “When did you arrive?”

“This morning,” came the rumbled reply. “Lord Wilfred pushed hard, and we made good time.”

“Ivanhoe’s here?” Oscar asked, immediately and inevitably irritated by the mention of the knight. The presence of Ivanhoe always meant a busy schedule and little respite for Wamba, as he was pulled into councils and conversations until all hours of the night. Now, when Wamba needed to rest and recover, was the worst possible time for Ivanhoe to be about, taking up all of his time. “What does he want?”

Farren frowned. “I would remind you that you have no standing to question the actions of members of the court, but I doubt it would have any sway on your behavior.” Oscar snorted. “Regardless, he is here to add his counsel to the matter of Lord Avery. They are discussing it now.”

Oscar felt his face settle into a scowl. Within a matter of hours, Ivanhoe had already managed to monopolize Wamba, and would no doubt continue to do so until he left London again. This dire prediction was proved true when Wamba, only recently returned, stood from his chair as the sun began to sink below the horizon that evening.

“You’re leaving again?” Oscar asked, just a hint of a whine in his voice.

“Wilfred has summoned me,” was Wamba’s explanation. He did not look enthusiastic about answering the call. In fact, if Oscar were compelled to name the look on his face, it would be nothing less than dread.

“Must you go tonight?” he insisted, wishing he had some way to know what worried Wamba, and the means to protect him from it.

“I’m afraid I must,” Wamba said, with a small smile for Oscar. “Get yourself some supper and do not worry about me.”

His words had the precise opposite effect. Oscar spent the night fretting uselessly and dozing sporadically until, watching the sky pale with approaching dawn through the tall windows, he finally let himself act on his growing alarm. The door to the bedroom stood open, as it had all night. Wamba had not returned, and Oscar meant to find him.

He pulled on his boots and set out into the slowly waking castle in search of his errant magistrate. He knew where Ivanhoe’s chambers were, the rooms kept in a state of constant readiness for him even during his long absences from court. He approached down the echoingly empty corridor and came to a stop outside the ironbound door, one hand resting on the handle as he wrestled with his indecision. He could knock, but if Ivanhoe was asleep and Oscar disturbed his rest, the repercussions might not be pleasant. On the other hand, if the knight was awake and caught Oscar venturing into his rooms without permission, the same was true. He had no choice but to gamble or retreat. Making up his mind, and gathering his courage as his heart began to thump against his ribs, he carefully opened the door, praying furiously that the hinges were greased. It swung open silently, just enough that he could insinuate his head around the frame and peer into the gloom beyond.

His heart stopped.

For Ivanhoe was indeed sleeping. And curled beside him in the great bed, so was Wamba. In the gray dawn light, Oscar could only just make out the shape of his features, but there was no mistaking that familiar countenance, or the fact that his shoulders and arms, exposed to the morning air, were bare. He was curled on his side, facing the door, with Ivanhoe sprawled out behind. A wave of envy washed over Oscar, so powerful he thought it might strangle him. It was inconceivable, utterly unjust that Ivanhoe could have this, could take Wamba to his bed, when Oscar was denied.

It was quickly matched by an awful realization. The apprehension in Wamba’s eyes as he set off the night before was stark in Oscar’s memory. Wamba had always insisted to Oscar that Ivanhoe was a kind master, and Oscar had trusted him, in spite of his own personal dislike of the knight, which he could admit was born mostly of petty jealousy. That fantasy was impossible to sustain, however, in light of this new knowledge that Ivanhoe would force Wamba to serve him in bed, make shameful use of his privilege as Wamba’s master.

Oscar’s seething was disturbed when Ivanhoe stirred. There was a rustle of blankets and one hand lifted to rub across the knight’s face. Oscar quickly ducked back into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him before he could be seen. He scuttled further along the passage, tucking himself into a niche in the wall to wait and nurse his swelling resentment like a rancorous bullfrog. It was some time later that the door to Ivanhoe’s chamber opened and Wamba emerged, alone. He was dressed in his garments from the previous day, rumpled from whatever rough treatment they had received. His hair was mussed, giving him an overall disheveled appearance that was impossible to misinterpret. As Oscar watched, peering carefully around the edge of his hiding place, Wamba turned and made his way down the corridor, a slight hitch in his step that was equally telling. Oscar decided in that moment that he could not forgive Ivanhoe, though he might not be able to stop him.

He was still fuming when he realized that Wamba would return to empty chambers, and he hurried off to fetch breakfast and prepare himself to fight that battle with Wamba once more. He took deep breaths as he walked, trying to calm the impotent rage at the unfairness of it all, but the image of Wamba in Ivanhoe’s bed haunted his vision and gave him no peace. He was determinedly thinking of nothing and waiting for the cooks to fill his tray when his arm was clasped suddenly from behind, and he whirled around.

“Oscar!” Emma cried, her small face glowing with surprise and delight. “I didn’t know you’d come back to London!”

“Hello, Emma,” he smiled in return, the sight of her warm expression heartening him immensely, a welcome distraction from his circling thoughts. “It’s not even two days since we returned. Busy, you know.”

“Two days and you haven’t come to see us!” she exclaimed, swatting his arm. “You know we’re all curious what you’ve been up to! I want to hear everything. You must come and find us tonight. We have to catch you up as well on all the news.”

“I can hardly bear the suspense,” he said tonelessly.

“You wouldn’t be so haughty if you knew what I did,” she scolded, wagging her finger an inch from his face.

“What is it, then?”

“I shouldn’t tell, for your cheek,” she said with a laugh, “but I can’t wait. I must tell you the best news! Margaret and Clement are getting married!”

“Married?” Oscar’s heart plummeted unexpectedly into his boots.

Emma bounced on her heels, gripping his arm in her excitement. “They’ve been to the church this past Sunday to make all the arrangements. The wedding will be next month. I’m her maid of honor, of course, but there’s plenty to be done. You will help us prepare, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” Oscar forced his face to contort into the semblance of a smile. He was happy for them, of course he was, but he could not help but feel that fate had been most unfair to him of late. It seemed the height of cruelty that Margaret should be able to have her love, and so soon after they began courting as well, while Oscar continued to wait and yearn and endure the object of his affection spending the night in the bed of another. He clenched his hands, and promised to meet Emma and the others that evening, and took up his tray to make an escape before Emma’s jubilation wore off enough that she could see through his false cheer.

Wamba was waiting for him when he returned to the library. He had changed into fresh clothes and was looking overall less disheveled, a little more light in his eyes than had been there the day before, though Oscar noted that he still did not wear his robes.

“Oscar,” Wamba smiled, “there you are.”

“Are you going to the tribunal today?” he asked, brutally crushing the urge to look Wamba over for any visible evidence of Ivanhoe’s attentions.

“No, I’ve some small amount of time before I’m expected back to those duties. I trust Gilbert can manage.” Remembering the balding official the king had sent to replace Wamba for the duration of his absence, Oscar was less confident. He did not mention it, instead putting the tray down before Wamba and drawing breath to begin the now familiar ritual of enjoining him to eat.

Before he could speak, there was a knock on the door.

"Enter!"

A young page slipped in at Wamba’s call. “The king asks that you join him in his study at your earliest convenience, my lord,” he said in a rush.

Wamba smiled at him and stood. “Thank you. Please tell him I will be there directly.”

“Yes, my lord,” the page piped, and scampered off as Oscar turned an accusing glare on Wamba.

“What about your breakfast?”

“You eat it. I’ve not much appetite anyway.”

“You never have an appetite,” Oscar sulked.

“I am sorry about that, Oscar," Wamba said gently. "I’ll do my best to eat it later, but now I must go.”

He quickly gathered his notes, heading out the door. Oscar stared down at the milky porridge, hands clenched on the edge of the table. Then his frustration got the better of him at last. He scooped up the tray and marched out the door after Wamba. He caught the man at the bottom of the staircase up to the king’s tower.

“What are you doing?” Wamba asked him, glancing back in surprise.

“He said you had to come. He didn’t say you couldn’t bring your breakfast with you.” Oscar set his jaw, refusing to be turned around. Instead, he herded Wamba ahead of him, straight into the king’s private study.

“What’s this?” King Richard asked, a curious brow rising skyward as they spilled into the room.

“I apologize, sire,” Wamba sighed. “I was unable to dissuade him. He is most insistent that I eat.”

“I must say I concur,” interjected Ivanhoe. “There's less of you every time I see you.”

The knight was seated at the king’s table, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. His golden hair was pulled back in a leather thong and he looked unfairly dashing with a smirk on his lips. Oscar gritted his teeth and adamantly refused to acknowledge the noble. He stalked to the table and placed the tray down squarely before the open chair.

“I see,” the king said, an amused smile. “Well, as you are here, Oscar, make yourself useful and pour the ale.”

Oscar looked around and located the sideboard, where a loaf of bread and a pitcher of small ale sat waiting. He took up the pitcher, serving the king first, then moving on to Ivanhoe.

“Oscar,” the knight greeted him. Oscar kept his eyes resolutely on the goblet and did not look at the knight, clenching his jaw tightly to keep from spouting words that he would surely come to regret. He could feel Wamba’s disapproval of his blatant disrespect, but he ignored it, listening instead when the king began to speak.

“I have read your reports. I agree that Avery must be removed. The question is how to go about it.”

“That’s easy enough,” Ivanhoe said immediately. “I’ll assemble some men and arrest him before another week is out.”

“I’m not certain that is the most prudent course of action,” Wamba said, his tone deferential but firm.

“Oh?” the king asked. “What would you recommend instead?”

Wamba settled his hands in his lap, elbows on the arms of his chair. “The castle is heavily fortified, and as I mentioned, Lord Avery keeps his soldiers well fed and outfitted. If you were to ride out in force, he could easily retreat into the keep and draw you into a siege. While I understand the urgency, I think we might do better to avoid a bloody conflict with him.”

“What choice have we but to ride out in force?” Ivanhoe insisted. “We certainly have enough men at the ready that he cannot stand against us, fortified castle or not, and you are proof enough that anything less is certainly no match for him.”

Wamba looked away, shame coloring his cheeks at this denunciation of how he had discharged his duty, and Oscar immediately hated Ivanhoe even more. He returned the pitcher to the sideboard, reining in the urge to slam it down with force, and took up a place just beside it, hoping to remain overlooked.

“As you say, my lord,” Wamba said quietly, lifting his head, “but I contend there is a better way. With patience, we may yet draw him out.”

“What do you have in mind?” the king asked, leaning back in his chair.

“He will be wary of us at the moment. An invitation or a summons would likely cause him to go to ground in his fortress as quickly as an outright attack. In a few months time, however, he will be less on his guard. Once he is lulled into believing that we have been bested, he will happily welcome an opportunity to savor his victory here in London.”

“You would allow him to continue his despicable activities while we sit idly by?” Ivanhoe asked.

“We need not disregard him completely,” Wamba said reasonably. “Your men could station themselves in nearby towns and buy up the serfs he sells off. For the people in the castle, we can do little, but we can prevent the greater tragedies.”

“More will die, the longer we wait,” Ivanhoe said grimly. “Those who do not will certainly suffer.”

“It is true, but unavoidable.” Wamba turned to look at him at last. “Who can say how many may die if you march on the castle? If we remove Lord Avery first, you can take it with little trouble, and preserve the lives of the people inside who have no wish to fight.”

“What say you, Wilfred?” asked the king, his head tilted to rest on one hand as he watched the two men argue their sides. He waved his goblet for Oscar to refill.

“My men are warriors. We should let them fight.”

The king hummed thoughtfully, taking a sip from his goblet. “I would normally be inclined to agree with you, but in this case I must say I have been swayed by more judicious counsel.”

Ivanhoe chuckled, a rueful edge to the humor as his stern mien fell away. “It is not the first time he has bested me with words. I doubt it will be the last.”

“Most gracious, my lord,” Wamba said, the hint of a smirk on his lips.

“Eat your porridge,” Ivanhoe grumbled, though he, too, was smiling.

Wamba obediently scooped up a mouthful, and though nothing would have made Oscar happier just an hour ago, that Ivanhoe had been responsible for the victory put a bitter taste in his throat.

“So for now, we will let him believe that he has won,” the king said, “and when enough time has passed?”

Wamba swallowed. “I have an idea, sire, but I will need to think more on the details, with your leave.”

“You can say nothing?”

“When the time is right, your majesty, I would ask that you call Lord Reginald back to London.”

Oscar frowned, as did the king. “To what end?”

Wamba smiled. “To bait our trap, of course.”

King Richard laughed. “Very well. I’ll leave you to your scheming. Wilfred, you will see to our spies to secure any further vanishing serfs?”

“At once,” the knight nodded.

“And you, Wamba, you’ll be back in the tribunal next week?”

“I thought it best to let Gilbert finish out the week. I’ll need to familiarize myself with what has happened in the interim.”

“From what I have heard, he is not nearly as celebrated as you are. The tribunal has been nearly empty these past few days. People are waiting to bring their claims before you.” The king smiled knowingly. “I imagine you’ll have quite a line waiting for you once word gets around that you’ve returned.”

“Perhaps I should consider lengthening the hours, in that case.”

Oscar sighed, and resigned himself to busy days ahead.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

Margaret and Clement were wed on a crisp day in early autumn, under a fiery banner of fall leaves before the tower chapel. The bride wore a simple gown of sky blue wool, silk ribbons of a richer hue wrapped in an elegant pattern around the bodice, molding it to her shape before meeting at her waist and trailing elegantly behind her. Her white blonde tresses were intricately braided and woven with delicate blossoms of lavender, a bunch of that same flower clutched in her hand. She was stunning, and Clement, wearing a forest green doublet and an awestruck expression, could not take his eyes from her. They clasped hands before the chapel door, making their vows to one another as they were instructed by the priest. Margaret’s gray bearded father presented a delicate gold ring that had belonged to her mother, and Clement slipped it onto his new bride’s finger, sealing their union.

The smiling couple led the procession into the chapel for the wedding mass, where the front rows of pews were decorated with bunches of lilies that Oscar and Emma had tied with ribbons and hung there for the occasion. They gathered them up as they left once the service was over, carrying them along to the wedding feast that had been laid out in the kitchen garden with the head cook’s blessing. Many of the kitchen maids were in attendance, splitting their attention between merrymaking and ferrying dishes, serving a feast of loaves, cheese, fruit, and a whole roast boar that had Oscar’s mouth watering at just the sight. A hogshead of dark wine was cracked, from which the newlyweds shared the first drink from the wedding cup. There was a great cheer, before the guests descended on the cask and the feast.

Oscar ate until he thought he would burst, joining in the raucous rounds of toasts that began while the wine continued to flow, before being carried straight into the dancing as evening settled on the castle. The lights of the torches spun and flickered in his vision as he was whirled around by his fellow dancers, laughing and stumbling. It felt like an eternity later that he broke from the crowd, careening to the bench where his cup waited. He sat to catch his breath, smiling out at revelers. Emma was dancing with a young man who he thought might be one of Margaret’s brothers, their hands linked as they spun round and round at the center of the wider circle. Amusingly, Gregory was fast asleep on the ground a few paces from where Oscar sat, his spindly arms flung out to either side and a comical wheeze to his snore.

Oscar chuckled to himself, letting his eyes wander until they settled on Margaret, laughing as she leaned on her new husband’s arm, her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink and her crown of lavender blossoms in disarray. She looked beautiful, beaming with joy, and he was unbearably happy for her.

“Admiring the dress?” a merry voice asked in his ear, as a warm weight settled close by his side. Oscar turned to find Celia perched next to him him, a mischievous smile on her face. He made a show of considering the blue dress that Margaret wore critically.

“It’s lovely,” he decided at last. “Your work?”

“I may have helped. This one talked me into it,” she said, pointing her toe at the snoring Gregory.

“That was kind of him,” Oscar smiled, imagining the stiff and proper Gregory asking such a favor.

“He’s quite a romantic, actually,” Celia whispered, leaning close to confide this secret, her arm brushing his, warm and soft.

Flush with wine and celebration, he leaned forward on impulse and placed a quick kiss on her lips. He pulled back at once, a bit shocked at his own daring, but she was smiling at him with laughter in her amber eyes.

“I was wondering when you were going to do that.”

Oscar smirked, considering the teasing quirk to her brow and inviting tilt to her mouth. “Is it alright?”

She hummed. “I think I’ll need another kiss to say for certain.”

It was pleasant to feel wanted, and though a sliver of doubt fought for his attention, he pushed it aside. He decided to allow himself this. Leaning forward to kiss her again, he let himself forget.

It was harder to be so casual in the bright light of morning, when he woke in a pile of hay in the stables with Celia curled against his chest and a blinding ache in his head. He kept absolutely still for uncounted minutes, the previous night coming back to him in flashes of sight and sound that might have made him blush if he were not fighting so very hard not to be sick.

He had nearly worked up the courage to raise his head when Celia stirred, groaning and pushing herself up, her elbow planted without warning in his sternum making him wince and growl. “Sorry,” she gasped, pushing off of him and sitting up, her sandy locks a wild halo around her face, decorated with bits of hay. The stuff clung also to her dress, which was twisted around her body in an awkward tangle. They stared at one another for a long suspended moment, taking stock of what had happened.

Then she began to laugh, and he could not help but do the same, though it made his head throb alarmingly. Celia's arms folded and she collapsed into the hay at his side, where they lay and let their hilarity run its course. “Well,” she gasped at last, “that was an exciting evening.”

“I am never touching another drop of wine,” Oscar swore earnestly.

“Nor I,” she agreed, still chuckling.

An awkward silence fell between them, and Oscar tried to ignore the pounding drums in his skull to put what he was thinking into words. “Celia,” he began.

“Don’t worry,” she interrupted him, propping herself up on one hand to look down at him with a knowing smirk. “I’m not going start crying and threaten you with marriage.”

He laughed, relief washing through him and stealing the tension from his limbs. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“I think Gregory is working up the nerve to ask me in any case.”

“Gregory?” he squawked, sitting up quickly to stare at her. It was hard to imagine the awkward and formal young man courting anyone, much less someone as carefree as Celia.

“He’s very sweet,” she confided with a gentle smile, “but very shy. What about yours?”

“My what?”

“Your sweetheart.”

“I don’t have one,” he said, though his heart shriveled painfully in his breast to admit it.

“Really? I thought you must. You said her name. Odd name for a woman, I thought. Is she foreign?”

Oscar’s blood ran cold. He wracked his memory to think what he might have revealed, but nothing would come to him.

“Oh,” she said, with dawning realization, “you don’t remember.”

“I don’t remember much,” he admitted, heart galloping and face growing hot. “I hope I didn’t do anything unwelcome.”

“No, no,” she laughed, patting his cheek. “You were perfectly lovely.”

“That’s a small mercy.”

“Don’t worry, Oscar. Your secret is safe with me.” She smiled and offered him her hand. “Best of luck to both of us, right?”

Unable to resist her cheer, though his face still burned, he smiled and shook her hand. “Best of luck, Celia.”

They parted ways cordially, and he thanked his stars that it was Sunday and the tribunal was closed. He sluiced himself at the well in the stable yard, picking the hay from his clothing and hair before he staggered inside. Wamba took one look at him and commanded him to bed with a shake of his head and a knowing smirk. Oscar fell to his pallet in his soiled clothes and slept soundly through the day, waking that evening to find his head much improved and Wamba warming a pot of milk and honey over the fire. Sipping at the comforting drink and watching Wamba silhouetted by the flames, Oscar decided that he was done with seeking comfort in others. Unacknowledged though it might be, he was grateful even to have found a love as strong as that which he bore Wamba, and he would not dishonor it further. The resolution brought him peace.

In the end, the wedding was the most interesting event of the autumn. Oscar had been expecting the matter of Avery to return to the fore during the latter part of the year, but the impending birth of Ivanhoe’s second child compelled him to return to Rotherwood after little more than a month, and kept him there while his wife recovered, thus delaying their plans until the winter had passed.

That was not to say that they learned nothing during that time. Two separate groups of serfs had been collared for sale, bought up by Ivanhoe’s spies and delivered to London. Oscar was permitted to attend one interview with Wamba, and witnessed for himself what Avery’s cruelty had wrought on his workers. The serfs were sickly and covered in filth. They shied from even Wamba’s gentle voice, huddling together and watching Farren and the soldiers that stood at the door with wary eyes. Wamba sent the uniformed men away, over Farren’s protest, and seated himself on a stool a short distance from the battered men and women. Only Oscar stood at his back as he spoke to them softly and assured them of their safety. At last, one of the group, a man not many years older than Wamba, found courage to respond. He told them the tale of how they had been chained, forced to travel by night and sold, and he named Avery as their master.

The serfs were relocated to one of the estates in the royal demesne to await the time when they could be returned to their families. In the meantime, the entire experience with Avery had made Oscar acutely aware of the fact that he was woefully unprepared to defend himself. Swallowing his pride, he approached Dunstan to request lessons, which the young soldier agreed to with mercifully little teasing. So Oscar dedicated a significant portion of his autumn to learning to fight, first with his fists, then with a blade of lath. Dunstan had promised to allow him a true steel weapon when Oscar could best him at sparring, spurring his dedication to his practice. It was clear to Oscar that he would never be a soldier, but he knew enough at least to ward off an attack should it become necessary.

He spent Christmas that year with Emmett and his family, holding his nephew on his lap and letting the curious child play with the fresh callouses on his hands while Emmett carved a toy horse from a block of wood and Mary served them all mincemeat pie. He had enough saved from his wages to bring gifts for all of them, and found he enjoyed the feeling of being of support to the family who had looked after him and worried over him despite the carelessness he had shown them in younger days. He stopped by the Gull and Anvil to visit Cara as well, but was told by the serving girls that she was away that night, and so left her gift in their charge and made his way home to Wamba.

The man was sitting on the hearth in the library, reading one of Oscar’s borrowed books and tending a handful of chestnuts roasting in the coals of the fire. He looked up at Oscar’s entrance and smiled. His face was flushed from sitting so close to the flames, the sleeves of his simple tunic rolled up to the elbows. “You’re back early.”

“Did they not feed you at the feast?” Oscar folded himself to the flagstones beside Wamba, wrapping his hand around Wamba’s long fingers to take the poker from him and scrape a chestnut out. It rolled to a stop at his feet. He scooped it up and juggled it in his hands, blowing on the shell until it cooled, then cracked it open to extract the sweet meat within.

“I thought we could share these,” Wamba said, chuckling at Oscar’s antics. “I haven’t anything else for you, I’m sorry to say.”

“I adore chestnuts,” Oscar shrugged away the apology. He knew Wamba’s circumstances. “I do have something for you, though.”

“You do?” Wamba’s eyes widened a bit, and he might have been blushing but Oscar could not be certain with the glow of the heat from the fire in his face.

He dug in his pocket, pulling out a flat parcel wrapped in a strip of plain linen and tied in an unsightly bow. Wamba took it from him curiously, picking the knot apart. The linen fell away to reveal a long spill of red wool.

“A scarf?” he asked, lifting one of the loops and watching how it draped down to his lap on either side with a bemused little smile on his face.

“You were wrong,” Oscar said. “Red does suit you. Very much.”

“Are you courting me, Oscar?” Wamba teased.

He just smiled. “If it has taken you this long to notice, I’ve clearly been too subtle.”

Wamba’s hand fell to his lap as the humor fell from his face, a look of mild consternation taking its place. “Oscar,” he sighed.

“Don’t scold me again,” Oscar told him quietly. “I told you then that I would not be so easily swayed.”

“Will you not relent?” Wamba murmured.

“How can I, when my heart knows so clearly what it wants?”

Wamba huffed a rueful laugh, shaking his head, but his voice was choked. “How you can say such things.”

“I know my heart. Do you know yours?”

He leaned over to place a soft kiss on Wamba’s scarred cheek, there and gone, and said no more of it. Instead, he scratched another chestnut from the fire, offering the flesh to Wamba this time. He took it, an uncertain half smile on his lips and a softness to his gaze that Oscar savored.

It was a happy way to end a tumultuous year, before the castle settled into the long, sleepy winter under a blanket of snow. The tribunal was quiet, the people of London too cold to cause much mischief or take umbrage with their neighbors. Dunstan and Oscar were compelled to take their training sessions into the stables more often than not. Oscar spent more time reading than fighting, passing long hours with Clerewald in the archives discussing topics from taxes to the legal complexities of the church. Wamba wore the scarf each time he ventured out of the castle.

Inevitably, though, spring arrived, and with it Ivanhoe. Oscar had come to terms with what he had seen, with the fact that Ivanhoe had rights as Wamba’s master, but he was still on guard once the knight arrived, watching carefully for any sign he might make use of that privilege again. To his relief, Ivanhoe seemed far too smitten with his new daughter to have attention for liaisons. He recalled his spies back to London to gather their final reports, and it was time to move against Avery at last.

The first step in the plan, as Wamba had laid out months past, was for the king to call Reginald back to London. A messenger was dispatched, and the rodent-faced noble arrived within a fortnight, allowed to take up residence in the chambers that had been his before he was ejected from court. Oscar made sure he was present when Reginald was summoned before the king, in the same audience chambers where he had last been disgraced. Reginald simpered and bowed, as obsequious as Oscar remembered, though he had aged significantly over the intervening time. His hair was nearly white, his face haggard and his fine clothes hanging from him.

“I was most pleased to receive your summons, your majesty,” he said coyly, giving another deep bow.

“Perhaps you will not be so pleased when you learn why you have been called.” King Richard was seated in his throne, his feet planted wide and hands resting on the ornate wooden arms. Ivanhoe stood to his right, Wamba to his left.

Reginald’s eyes flicked from one man to the next before returning to the king. “Is there some way I can be of service, sire?”

“I am hesitant to entrust any task to you, Reginald, as I gave you only one instruction on our last meeting. One which you have failed so woefully to follow.”

“Sire?” Reginald croaked, eyes widening with growing anxiety. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I was explicit in my command to you that what you learned not be shared further,” the king said sternly. “You disobeyed, and you will bear the consequences. Your family might yet be spared, however, if you do as you are now asked without complaint.”

Reginald swallowed, his eyes going to Wamba and staying there, something in his eyes Oscar might have called regret. Ivanhoe laid a hand on the hilt of his sword, a silent threat, and the cornered noble’s attention immediately shifted to him instead.

“Are you prepared to obey me, Reginald?”

“What is that you require of me, sire?”

“Tell him.” King Richard waved Wamba forward with one hand.

He stepped past the throne, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. “You will write a letter to Lord Avery,” Wamba said, “with my help.”

“What will this letter say?” Reginald asked, his hands wringing nervously.

“You will invite him to London to witness an execution.”

Reginald paled. “Whose?”

Wamba smiled. “Mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic consensual m/f sex. Both parties are 17.


	52. Chapter 52

The ploy was brilliant for all that it was surprisingly simple. The king released a proclamation that a traitor to the crown had been arrested, and would be executed after a period of atonement lasting one month. Once the date of the promised execution was made public, Reginald penned his letter as instructed, detailing the happy news that Ivanhoe was disgraced, Wamba exposed and bound for the block due to his deception. This was dispatched with all speed to Avery, along with an invitation to be Reginald’s guest to witness the spectacle.

A reply arrived within a fortnight, bearing the news that they had been hoping for. Avery had set out for London. In the meantime, the court was abuzz with rumors about the mysterious prisoner and his unknown act of treason, new theories arising daily even as the castle guards were forced to restrict access to the dungeons to ward off curious eyes. The whole castle was seized with a mood of breathless anticipation, the fever growing as the date grew near.

“I heard they captured a traitor from the Holy Land. One of the knights who turned on the king and got him imprisoned.” Emma confided to Oscar as they walked back from the laundry one day, both of them clutching piles of clean linen.

“That was years ago,” Oscar said doubtfully. “Do you really think he hasn’t already dealt with everyone responsible?”

“Well, who do you think it is, then?” she demanded irritably. “You haven’t made so much as one guess, and it’s been weeks. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

In all honesty, Oscar had found it harder and harder to keep from spilling the truth to his friends, who had been caught up in the frenzy of rumormongering as much as the rest of the castle servants. He knew better than to betray the king’s confidences, so he compromised by keeping his silence more often than not, speaking only to dissuade them when their ideas became too outlandish to bear.

“If we’re patient, we’ll know soon enough,” he offered.

“What about your friend Dunstan?” Emma asked. “Can’t he sneak into the dungeons and get a look at whoever they’re keeping down there?”

“Even if he could, why would he risk his job by telling us?”

“Fine,” she huffed. “If I’m right, though, you will admit my superiority to you in all ways.”

“Alright,” he laughed, confident in the wager.

They parted ways in the corridor, and he made his way to Wamba’s chambers. It was a surprise to find not only Ivanhoe, but the king there as well, standing with Wamba beside the fire. Oscar staggered to a halt in the doorway, but the nobles afforded him hardly a glance, occupied with their conversation. Wamba beckoned him into the room, directing him with a curt gesture to close the door.

“Our scheme has borne fruit,” Ivanhoe said. “Avery comes. Perhaps it is time to relent and admit that there is no execution before your court works itself into a froth and you are faced with open revolt.”

“They have no cause to question my methods,” the king said darkly,” nor to demand that I share with them what I am not ready to reveal.”

“They fear the secrecy,” Wamba said. “Until they know what manner of crime this imaginary prisoner has committed, they have no way of determining whether they might have displeased you in some equal way.”

“Preposterous.”

“In any case,” Ivanhoe interjected again, “we can be done with all of it by calling off the execution.”

King Richard shook his head. “No. I’ll not risk him getting wind and turning back at this stage. We must maintain our fiction for only a few days more. Once Avery is in chains, then I will dispel the rumors.”

“Very well,” Ivanhoe sighed, “but the sooner we are done with this the better.”

“Your little ploy has created quite the headache, Wamba,” the king admonished.

Wamba smiled. “You witness now the consequences of taking advice from a fool,” he said insouciantly. “A wise king might have seen the folly in that sooner.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll execute him after all. What say you, Wilfred?’

“Others have tried,” Ivanhoe snorted. “It never takes. He has more lives than a cat.”

Oscar frowned, unsure if this was merely a jest. The king and Wamba treated it as such, but he had no chance to ask, as all three men soon departed and he was left behind to attend to his chores. By the time Wamba returned, the moment had passed.

It was another three days before the message they had been waiting for finally arrived, delivered to their door late in the day by Ivanhoe. He was dressed in mail with his sword at his belt.

Wamba stood from the desk to greet him. “Is there news?”

“He’s taken lodging near the north gate,” the knight told him. “I’m off to arrest him. Do you have the warrant?”

“Of course,” Wamba said. The little scroll had been sitting on his desk for weeks, awaiting this day. He carried it across the room and began to proffer it to Ivanhoe, but he stopped halfway, hesitating.

“What is it?” the knight asked.

Wamba chewed his lip, seeming to deliberate with himself for a moment. Then he asked, quietly, “Might I accompany you?”

Ivanhoe’s frowned. “He might put up a fight. It could be dangerous.”

“Your men will be there,” Wamba reasoned.

Ivanhoe watched him quietly for a long moment. “It’s that important to you?” he said at last, something Oscar did not quite understand in his voice.

Wamba held his gaze as he replied, “It is.”

“Very well.”

“I’m going, too,” Oscar said at once.

Ivanhoe smiled knowingly. “I expected nothing less.”

The cool spring evening was quiet, and their party unusually serious, perhaps due to the gentle rain that fell steadily on the soldiers as they made their way through muddy streets to the edge of the city. The steel of their mail and swords glinted wetly in the light of suspended lanterns as they passed. Oscar himself had no weapons, but he kept close to Wamba’s side, determined to defend him if it became necessary. The inn where Avery had taken up residence was a small solid building just within the city walls. The sign over the door was so old and weathered that Oscar could not quite make out the device painted there. He had little time to contemplate it, for Ivanhoe pushed open the door, Farren at his heels. Oscar took a deep breath, and followed.

They entered a low-ceilinged common room with an assortment of rough wooden tables lit by the healthy fire. A scan of the room revealed that many of the tables were empty, but a handful near the hearth were occupied by armed men who regarded them suspiciously as they entered. Oscar heard Avery before he saw him. The stocky noble was seated at the far corner of the room, his back to the wall and flanked on both sides by men in his livery. He laughed uproariously, waving his tankard as he made some comment to his lackeys, clearly well into his cups.

Ivanhoe nodded to the stairs that led to the upper floor, and Farren moved at once to block that passage, sending men up to secure the rooms above. The rest of the soldiers fanned out across the room, causing the pair of serving girls to retreat hastily behind the bar and out of range of whatever trouble was brewing. Ivanhoe, meanwhile, walked straight to Avery’s table. He hooked a nearby stool with his foot, dragging it over and lowering himself down to rest with his arms on the table, facing the noble. Avery finally noticed him, his brows rising as his mouth twisted in a cruel smile.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Can this be disgraced knight? What is it that brings you to me, boy?”

“So sure of your victory, Avery?” Ivanhoe asked. While the inebriated noble had yet to notice, his guards were taking stock of the soldiers, hands inching slowly toward their weapons. Ivanhoe did not take his eyes from the man before him, giving all appearance of ignoring them.

Avery laughed, dropping his tankard to the table. “If you think you can prey upon my sympathies, you are mistaken. I had some affection for your father, true, but that is well in the past. I have come to watch that little fraud get his due, and I promise you I will enjoy it.”

“I fear I must disappoint you yet again, my lord.” As eerily calm as Oscar had ever seen him, Wamba walked across the room to stand behind Ivanhoe, the king’s warrant in his hand. He reached over Ivanhoe’s shoulder to drop it to the tabletop. “It is not I who will face judgment tomorrow.”

The grin fell from Avery’s face, his gaze sharpening as it flew from the scroll to Wamba to Ivanhoe and back. “What are you doing here? What is this?”

“Do you really not see, Avery?” Ivanhoe asked. “The time for your cruelty is at an end. By order of the king, I am placing you under arrest.”

The dawning realization on Avery’s face, the growing horror, filled Oscar with fierce satisfaction. He had watched silently as Wamba had borne the derision and cruelty of this man. The justice of this moment was sweeter than he could have imagined.

“You lured me here,” Avery spat.

Wamba tilted his head, face impassive. “You are not the only one capable of setting traps, my lord,” he said evenly.

“You little maggot,” Avery snarled, leaping suddenly to his feet. Ivanhoe jumped up as well, his sword in his hand in a movement faster than Oscar could follow. “Kill him!” Avery roared, pointing at Wamba. The room erupted.

The men flanking Avery lunged for Ivanhoe, drawing their own weapons. He fended off both swords, shoving Wamba back with one hand as he spun. They attacked again and one of the soldiers ran to Ivanhoe aid, engaging the smaller man and leaving the brute to Ivanhoe. The men by the fire rose to their feet, a bristling arsenal of swords, knives and maces appearing in their hands. They charged, and the real fight began.

Oscar looked around desperately for something to use as a weapon as a young ruffian swung at him with a jagged dagger. Still empty-handed, he ducked, letting the attack pass over his head and planting his shoulder in the man’s sternum, hurling him toward the wall with a shout. He blinked off his amazement that the move had worked, and reminded himself to thank Dunstan as he threw himself after his foe, grasping his wrist and slamming his hand against the wall to keep the dagger well clear while landing heavy jabs to the man’s head.

“Wamba, behind you!” Ivanhoe roared. Oscar gave his attacker one last good blow, sending him to the ground, and turned in time to see a large arm close about Wamba’s shoulders from behind, a knife flashing in the firelight as it arced toward his throat.

“No!” he screamed, lunging with an icy certainty in his gut that he was too far away, would not reach them in time.

Wamba’s eyes narrowed, then he crouched and drove an elbow back into his attacker’s stomach. With a quick step, he shoved his weight back into the man, throwing him off balance enough to slip from his grasp. He spun and dealt the brute a swift kick to the side of his knee, making him scream and crumple to the ground. By the time Oscar reached him, he had wrested the knife from the man with both hands, spinning around just in time to sink it into the sword arm of another of Avery’s guards who was poised to strike him from behind. The man dropped his sword, howling and clawing at the dagger where it protruded from his leather jerkin. Then Farren was there, dealing both disabled men heavy blows with a short mace that sent them to the ground, senseless.

They were among the last. Ivanhoe pulled his sword from Avery’s chief brute, who fell with a wet gurgle, and the room went still. Oscar stared at Wamba, panting hard, shocked at the sudden savagery he had witnessed from the gentle man. Wamba shook out his hands, while Ivanhoe took stock of the scene around them. Most of Avery’s men were still alive, in various states of injury. All of the soldiers were standing, and he gave them an approving nod before turning his attention to the instigator of the conflict. Avery cowered behind the table, his eyes wide.

“Get up, Avery,” Ivanhoe barked. “Face the consequences of your actions.”

Farren kicked the table out of the way and hauled him up, securing his hands and pushing him toward the door. At that moment, the soldiers who had gone up to investigate the upper floor returned, dragging with them Avery’s son Roger. The man was half dressed and protesting loudly as he was marched out after his father. Ivanhoe turned to Wamba, clapping a hand down on his shoulder.

“Glad to see you still know how to handle yourself.” He laughed, in high spirits after the fight. “Let’s get back and report to the king. He’ll want to know what happened, though I’m sure he’ll let them stew in the cells for at least one night.”

Oscar kept close to Wamba on the way back, though he could not help but shoot him frequent glances as they walked, still unable to reconcile what he had just seen with what he knew of Wamba.

“What is it, Oscar?” Wamba asked him at last, turning to give him a questioning look as they walked. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No. It’s just,” Oscar frowned, glancing ahead to the ranks of soldiers, “I didn’t know you could fight,” he blurted, unable to keep the note of accusation from his voice.

Wamba chuckled. “I don’t know that I would call that fighting,” he said. “I can’t do much more than defend myself, and even then it’s mostly a matter of luck.” Oscar was not convinced by this casual dismissal, but he put his questions aside for the moment to focus on more important things.

The ploy had worked. Avery was captured at last.


	53. Chapter 53

Avery was brought before the king the next morning, to his private audience chamber with only a handful of guards. Seeing him in chains gave Oscar a sense of deep satisfaction and he could not quite contain his wolfish grin as the man was marched into the center of the room and forced to his knees.

“Avery,” said the king, “I do not believe we have met, though I sent summons for all my vassals to attend me here when I took the throne. You have defied me for far too long.”

“I do not recognize the authority of your line, Norman.” Avery spat, glaring at the king.

King Richard was unimpressed, one brow lifting toward the crown that adorned his brow. “How fortunate, then, that I do not require your approval to keep my throne. In fact, I need nothing from you but your presence here to hear your sentence for the crimes you have committed against the people of your fief.”

“Is the decision already made, then? Am I not even to be given a chance to offer a defense?” Avery growled.

“What explanation could you possibly offer to justify the truths that have been witnessed by my agents?” the king mused. “No, I have heard enough. You are the worst sort of evil. You violated your sacred duty to care for the people placed in your charge by your station of birth. There is no place for you in the England I would build.”

“England is not yours!”

“I think you will find that it is. By that power, you are stripped of your lands and your hereditary titles. May your successor be a better steward of that land and its people, though I can hardly see how anyone could be worse.”

“Those lands are mine! They have been my family’s domain since long before your kind came to these shores. By what right do you take them from me?”

“By right of conqueror, if you would have it that way. Your time is done, Avery, and as you are now a common criminal in my kingdom, you are beneath my notice. I will turn you over to my magistrate for justice.” He waved a hand at Wamba. “How fortunate that we have him here in attendance to tell us your fate.”

Wamba stepped forward from his place beside the throne, and for the first time Avery betrayed a trace of true anxiety. He his it quickly, glaring up at the man who now controlled his destiny.

“Do you think I will kill you, Avery?” Wamba asked quietly.

Avery sneered. “You must be enjoying this, lording it over your betters as you’ve always wished to.”

“How little you know me.” Wamba’s face revealed nothing of his true feelings, calm and considering as he looked down at the disgraced man.

“I will not be spoken to thus by some gutter-born whelp of a whore.” Avery snarled.

Wamba ignored him. “You were born with much, Avery, and you squandered it all. I think it only fair that you learn the value of work, of the coin you spent so freely. You can repay the mercy you have been shown by contributing to the wealth of the crown, in the king’s silver mines. If that is agreeable to his majesty, of course.”

“A fitting choice,” King Richard nodded. “What of the son?”

“I would not condemn the son for the crimes of the father,” Wamba said. “Perhaps he can be given a chance to prove himself a worthy subject in his own way.”

“You would grant him mercy?” asked the king. “Even after all he’s done?”

“I would, sire. He never had a chance to aspire to true nobility, not with a father like this. Perhaps by experiencing mercy he will learn the value of it.”

“Very well.” The king’s smile was pleased.

Oscar could not contain his grin, and when Wamba met his eye he saw a twitch of an answering smile on his lips. He was eager to talk to Wamba, to congratulate him, perhaps work up the courage to tell him how very magnificent he was when he wore his authority that way, as he longed to do every day in the tribunal. There was no chance to do any of these things, however, as Wamba and Ivanhoe were taken off to the great hall by the king, to eat and also to finally relieve the curiosity of the court and reveal the truth of their false execution.

So Oscar resigned himself to an evening alone, and might have spent the night sunk in despond but that Emma appeared at the door less than an hour later. She took his arm and urged him out and down the corridor, refusing to suffer his protests or to give him any explanation.

“Where are we going?” he asked for the umpteenth time.

“Just be patient!” she said, leading him down yet another flight of stairs. “We’re nearly there!”

Their destination proved to be one of the storerooms near the vaults. He was pushed through the door by Emma, and found a welcome sight waiting for him. His friends were there, Gregory, Celia, Margaret and Clement, all smiling at him expectantly.

“What’s this about?” he asked, still at a loss.

“Really, Oscar?” Emma huffed exasperatedly. “Your birthday! You did tell me that it’s the week before May Day, didn’t you?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed. He had completely lost track of the date, too concerned with the plan to capture Avery, but it was true. His birthday was already several days past, forgotten. Though, to be fair, he had never really celebrated it even as a child.

Emma was still watching him, impatient for a reaction, so he smiled. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

She grinned happily. “Of course I did! Now come and have a drink. We pinched a bit of the good wine, and you’re going to celebrate!”

They had also prepared a humble repast of bread and cheese and sweet peaches. The wine was excellent, as was the company, and all of them were soon lounging amongst the sacks of vegetables, laughing and talking. He noticed at one point that Celia and Gregory sat very close together, and as the wine flowed they began to lean against one another, laughing privately from time to time. Oscar narrowed his eyes at them. “Are you two…” he trailed off, watching Gregory’s cheeks ignite in a flaming blush.

“We meant to tell you,” he said stiffly, “but there wasn’t a good time. Celia’s agreed to marry me.”

Margaret shrieked delightedly, jumping up in her excitement. Oscar goggled, that crushing feeling that he had first experienced when he had heard about Margaret and Clement returning in force.

“Not you, too!” he moaned, flopping back into his bed of burlap.

Emma laughed, leaning over unsteadily to pat Oscar on the head. “Never fear. I’m still here, and with no prospects to speak of. We’ll be old and alone together.”

Oscar could not remain dour for long, easily caught up in the excitement of his friends and the extravagant plans they began to make. By the time they had finished the wine, they had planned not only the wedding but produced a creative list of names for their children as well. Oscar’s melancholy only began to creep back in as he made his way through the darkened corridors to the chambers he shared with Wamba, circling thoughts once again on the man and his stubborn insistence that Oscar’s affections were misplaced. Since Christmas, they had been at a stalemate, Oscar forcing himself not to touch, while Wamba’s considering glances lingered on him more often, falling away only when he dared to look back. It was truly maddening.

These were his thoughts when he opened the door to the library and found Wamba standing before the fire, gazing into the flames. He looked up when Oscar entered, and gave him a sweet smile.

“Hello, Oscar.” His voice was low and warm, all the feeling there that had been absent when he confronted Avery. The difference was stark, the cold and composed magistrate fallen away to the warm and gentle man beneath, both splendid and alluring. He was easy, at peace for the first time in months, and the effect was devastating. Oscar wanted him for his own. Suddenly, that desire was all he knew.

He pushed the door carelessly closed behind him, his eyes intent on his goal. He covered the distance to Wamba with determined strides, following when Wamba stepped back, crowding him against the wall beside the hearth. He put his hands on the wall, to either side of Wamba’s head, watching his eyes widen and his mouth open on a sharp inhale.

“Oscar?”

He watched those lips form his name, the familiar sound an irresistible temptation. He gave in to the urge to discover the taste of that surprise, dipping his head to capture Wamba’s mouth, but the man twisted his face away, and Oscar’s kiss landed on his cheek instead. He growled in frustration, taking hold of Wamba’s chin to pull him back to where he wanted him, leaning in again.

“You’re drunk, Oscar,” Wamba said quietly, that calm mask in place once more, infuriating when Oscar craved the warmth instead.

“You want this,” he insisted. “I know you do. Why do you continue to deny it?”

Wamba’s hand rose, pressing against his shoulder and urging him back. Annoyed, he grabbed Wamba’s wrist, pulling it up until his hand was immobilized against the stones above his head, holding it there. It was easy for Oscar to pen him in against the wall, using his greater height and newly earned muscle to loom over Wamba, keeping him still with a hand at his throat. Wamba’s dark eyes regarded him impassively, though no more than a sword’s breadth separated them.

“Would you take what you desire by force, then?”

Oscar jolted, realizing suddenly what he had done, what demon he had allowed to possess him. He released Wamba at once, shame forcing his eyes to the floor and his heart into his throat. “No,” he whispered. “Never. I love you too much.”

He felt Wamba’s hand settle light against his hair, pulling him in to let him rest his head on the sharp shoulder, taking in his familiar warmth. Wamba’s touch was a caress and an absolution at once, and he knew that his desire was returned, but something still stood in the way.

“Why?” he asked again.

“This is a very dangerous thing, Oscar,” Wamba rasped.

Oscar let one hand rest on Wamba’s waist, careful to keep his touch light and gentle, mindful of not repeating his mistake. “I know,” he insisted. “I understand the danger. I’m not a child any longer.”

He could feel Wamba’s sigh. For a long time, they stayed that way, just barely touching. Then Wamba’s arms tightened around him.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered. “Tomorrow when you are clear-headed. Ask me again.”

Oscar swallowed and nodded against Wamba’s shoulder. He let the man guide him to his pallet, extracting him from his boots and pulling the blanket over his shoulders. Oscar fell gratefully to the pillow, his head spinning now from drink and his stormy emotions. Blackness rose to envelop him, but he did not think he imagined the kiss that fell on his temple as he drifted off to sleep.


	54. Chapter 54

Oscar woke to the sound of bells.

He rolled over in his bed with a groan, pulling his pillow over his head to drown out the insistent clanging that set his head pounding in time with the beat of his heart. That rhythm sped quickly as the cobwebs of the wine began to clear and the previous night came back to him. Shame, lust, and hope tumbled over one another like tussling puppies within his chest. He remembered cornering Wamba in his haze of drink and being thoroughly humbled by him. He remembered their hesitant embrace and the ghost of a kiss that lulled him to sleep. More than anything he remembered Wamba’s words, the promise in them, and an uncontrollable grin stole over his face.

He threw off his blankets and rose, splashing his face in his bowl to wash away the last clinging remnants of the evening’s revelry. The bedroom door was closed, so he dressed and made his way to the kitchen to fetch breakfast, thinking hard about what still needed to be done. His actions the previous night had been far too hasty, and he would not repeat the mistake. As much as he wanted nothing more than to ambush Wamba in his bed, carve out a space for himself there and never leave it, he knew he needed to take the proper steps. He had one chance to make this perfect, and he would not ruin it by rushing to action when it had never served him before. He had waited years for Wamba. One more day would not kill him.

Wamba was awake when he returned, and appeared to be selecting books off of his shelves at random and piling them on the desk. The room was bright with sunlight, and Oscar’s heart warmed also.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, carrying the tray to the desk and setting it down between Wamba’s arrangement of books.

“Good morning, Oscar,” Wamba smiled, and Oscar noted giddily the little curl of excitement at the corner of his mouth, the only clue that he was as filled with anticipation as Oscar was, that he had hopes for this day. Once more, Oscar fought down the urge to pounce upon him at once, schooling himself to patience and forcing himself to behave as if nothing had changed. He set Wamba’s bowl before his chair, prompting him to sit.

“What are you doing with all these?” he asked, gesturing to the books.

“Looking into an obscure matter of inheritance. You remember that palmer and his son.”

In truth, Oscar had forgotten, with the excitement over Avery, but there had indeed been such a case in the tribunal. He shrugged.

“Would it trouble you terribly if I go into the city today?” he asked, stirring his own breakfast.

Wamba’s smile was bemused. “You know you don’t need my permission.”

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted my help with this,” he waved at the table. “If you don’t, I promised Emmett I would visit before my birthday, but as I was reminded last night that date has already passed, and I have once again disappointed my big brother.”

“Then by all means, you should go,” Wamba said, and Oscar knew he was not imagining the disappointment in his eyes. He hated causing Wamba this uncertainty, but he forced himself to say nothing else. If he broached the subject now, he knew he would not be able to stop himself.

Instead he smiled, and thanked Wamba, and left straight from the kitchens once he had returned the tray. Emmett was pleased to see him, of course, and immediately offered him a chair, though he had the haggard look of one who had not slept.

“Baby keeping you up?” Oscar asked, watching his brother potter about near the fire.

“Yes, though he’s hardly a babe any longer. It’s high time he learned to sleep through the night. For my sake, if nothing else.”

Emmett set a mug down on the table beside Oscar’s elbow and took his own seat adjacent. He crossed his legs and leaned on his elbow in one smooth, casual shift, and gave his brother a tired smile.

“So what has brought you here at this most unusual of hours, little brother?”

“I told you that I would visit, and I’m overdue. So here I am.” Oscar held out his arms, demonstrating his presence in his brother’s home.

Emmett scoffed. “As if I don’t know you better than that. You came early because you wanted to talk to me alone. So what is it? What wisdom can I provide you, my dear brother?”

Oscar glanced at the steep stairs that led to the garret room above. “Will Mary be down soon?”

“No need to worry,” said Emmett. “Peter kept her up all night as well. They’ll both be fast asleep for a time yet.” He pushed his coal-black hair clear of his eyes and regarded his brother seriously, a hint of concern in his eyes. “Has something happened?” 

Oscar shook his head and lifted the neglected mug. He paused, amused, when he found that it contained warm milk. “Nothing to worry you. It’s only that I have need of certain knowledge you may not want to share in her presence.”

The careful words put Emmett on guard. “What knowledge do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.

Oscar paused before he spoke, wondering if he really wanted to give voice to the question. Saying it would make it real, and after so long he felt fragile, protective of this delicate thing he had nursed quietly in his heart. Finally, softly, he said, “I wonder what you might tell me about how men couple with men.”

Emmett grew very still. “I thought you were too young to realize.”

“Oh, I did not know at the time. It was only considering it later that I saw the truth.” He smiled. “I had thought perhaps to taunt you with it at some point. But so many things changed.”

“And now?” Emmett leaned toward his brother, unable to conceal his eager curiosity. “You have someone in mind?”

“Maybe.” Oscar laughed uncomfortably, his neck and face growing hot.

Emmett grinned, a knowing glee in his eyes as he said, “It is your young magistrate.”

The pained groan that escaped Oscar only fueled the elder’s delight. Emmett patted his brother’s head, cradled in his hands, and chuckled. “Who would have thought I would live to see the day? Wild little Oscar has been tamed at last.” When Oscar groaned again, Emmett took pity on his obviously anguished sibling and sat back, relaxed. “Very well. What would you like to know?”

Oscar looked up, surprised and grateful. “Anything. Everything.” To his horror, the shock of his brother’s easy assent pulled out a sudden, babbled confession. “I approached him once, you know, two years ago now, and he refused me. I was so angry. I was convinced that I was somehow not enough for him, but it was not that way at all. He urged me to find love elsewhere because he thinks himself unworthy. He cannot appreciate the rarity of his own gentle soul.”

Emmett’s head tilted to one side, his eyes soft, moved by his brother’s glowing words. “That has changed?”

“No,” Oscar shook his head sadly. “He is blind as ever to his own beauty, but I have done as he asked and it has changed nothing. I tried to see myself with others, but if it was his hope that I would lose my heart to some kitchen wench or merchant’s daughter, I fear I have disappointed him yet again. I am as drawn to him as I ever was, and now I have a chance. I would not go to him a fumbling child.”

Oscar fell silent. Emmett regarded him with kind eyes as he turned his heated face to the table. “I had no idea that your admiration had grown to such a love. That alone would be more than enough to make up for any lack of experience, of that I have no doubt. He would teach you the rest as he has taught you countless things.” He raised his hand as Oscar opened his mouth to protest. “But if you want to go to him prepared, then I will speak plainly.”

“Thank you.”

Emmett leaned further back and crossed his arms across his chest, staring at the contours of the low-beamed ceiling, considering where to begin. “As I’m sure you are aware, a woman’s body has ways of preparing itself for a man. A man’s body is not so ready. Any sort of oil or salve will serve, but be sure to have something convenient, or your coupling will involve a great deal of pain.” He paused. “There is always a measure of pain, but patience and care can do much to ease this. And a hand can do much to prepare a body for intimacy, and give much pleasure besides.”

There was a momentary silence, as Emmett’s words settled over the table. Then Oscar shifted a fraction, the images evoked by his brother’s words causing a growing warmth in his belly. He swallowed, absorbing the information, though he could not meet his brother’s eyes. “Is that all?”

“Not quite.” In the end, Emmett was quite a variety of useful ideas to share, though Oscar was not entirely sure they were worth the price in embarrassment. After watching Oscar squirm for several minutes, Emmett at last took pity. He reached over and put a comforting hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Oscar, you already know what to do. Treat him as if he is precious to you, and you cannot go astray.”

“Thank you,” Oscar muttered.

“Of course.” Emmett smiled again. “I very much like that quiet noble of yours, and I hope that everything goes as you imagine.”

He stood and brushed his hands across his thighs, sweeping away some residue Oscar could not see. “Are you going to stay and share a meal with your brother and his family before you depart to whisk your master into bed?”

Oscar laughed at that, though his flush darkened anew. He leaned back in his seat, as the sound of people stirring in the room above reached his ears. “Of course.”

He left his brother’s house late in the afternoon, after several hours of letting his nephew crawl all over him. He walked along the riverbank, enjoying the way the lengthening shadows fell across the murky water as he made his way to his next destination.

He hastened through the market, turning at last into the Jewry. Rachel’s shop was perched above a butcher, up a flight of narrow wooden stairs that creaked under Oscar’s shoes. He rapped on the door to announce his presence before he pushed it open. The shop was small and cramped, the low ceiling hung with a bewildering assortment of dried herbs that Oscar had to stoop to avoid. Bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes lined the walls, their prismatic glass a rainbow of color in the light from the rear window. A wide wooden bench was scattered with mortars, pestles, sieves, and other apparatus that Oscar could not name and whose purpose, from looking, he could not divine.

Rachel was dressed in her usual dark garb, her white hair pulled back under an intricately woven scarf. Her gnarled hands squeezed at a wet clump of what appeared to be weeds, coaxing forth droplets of thick crimson liquid to fall into a bowl on the table. She glowered at Oscar.

“What does he need?” she said, straight to the point.

Oscar cleared his throat. He always found her unreasonably intimidating for an old woman, but she was the right choice for what he needed to ask. “Actually, I’ve come for something for myself.”

“Hmm? Got an itch?” she demanded, and he coughed, flushing.

“No, nothing like that. It’s not just for me, really,” he prevaricated, trying to find the words to ask for what he needed.

“You waste too much time.” She threw the ragged bunch of wet herbs down into a second bowl and wiped her hands on a nearby cloth, leaving bloody stains on the linen. She stumped around the table to peer up at him, and he wished he had just said the words sooner because it was so much harder with her sharp black gaze boring into him from such a close distance.

He took a breath and ignored the fire in his cheeks as he said firmly, “I need a salve. Or an oil. Whatever Wamba and I can use between us.”

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he felt a drop of sweat begin to itch down the back of his neck. Then she clapped her hands. “Not so hard to say after all.” She turned and began to sort through one of the lower shelves. He stood still and tried to breathe slowly and calm his galloping heart. Eventually she returned, brandishing an orange glass bottle the size of a plum and a squat clay jar that fit easily in his palm.

She slapped the orange bottle into his hand. “This before,” she said. “On you and on him.”

All the progress Oscar had made in containing his embarrassment was undone at once by her words. Though he was to receive no mercy, for there was more.

“This after,” she said, showing him the jar, “in case you are careless.” She placed it in his free hand, and her fingers closed tight about his, the jar pressed painfully between their palms as she stared meaningfully at him. “Do not be careless.”

He swallowed. “I won’t. Thank you.”

“Six pence,” she said, releasing him and flipping her hand palm up. He fumbled the two vessels, tucking them into his belt and retrieving the coin to pay her from his own purse.

He veritably leapt down the steps in his eagerness to escape her knowing gaze. He stood for a moment, breathing deep of the evening air to clear his head and force his flush down at last. The sun was just beginning to set, and his preparations were complete. All that remained was to take himself to Wamba.

He turned his feet toward the castle, and eagerly began to make his way home.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

It was late in the evening by the time Oscar slipped into the library, only the faintest hint of bruised blue still tinting the sky visible through the window. He was careful to close the door quietly behind him, his eyes settling at once on the room’s other occupant. Wamba’s narrow form was framed by the bookcases, cast in the light of the guttering fire. Oscar could not help but smile at the sight of him. As he approached, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the rugs, he noted that Wamba held a heavy tome, reading where he stood with a furrow of concentration between his brows.

His head rose sharply when Oscar’s hand fell onto his shoulder. The book nearly tumbled from his grasp, but Oscar caught it with one hand, closing it and setting it carefully on a shelf. The tension fell from Wamba’s face as he recognized Oscar, and a small welcoming smile rose on his face that did not quite reach his eyes. “Hello, Oscar.” He looked tired, and sad, and Oscar could not abide it.

“Hello,” he said softly. Holding Wamba’s gaze, he let his hand slide up from the sharp shoulder to his cradle his cheek, and watched Wamba’s face slacken in surprise, the smile fall away entirely. “Have you had enough time now?”

He let his intent show on his face, his gaze settling on Wamba’s lips, just parted and trembling faintly. Wamba’s eyes were wide and vulnerable, on the edge of capitulation. Oscar could see it, only these last few inches between him and his most dearly held wish. Oscar took a steeling breath, and launched into his confession with a thundering heart.

“I owe you a debt of such a magnitude already that I know I can never hope to repay it. You took me at my worst and saw worth in me. You taught me, helped me, forgave me all my foolishness. Knowing you has changed me for the better in so many ways. I have no right to ask any more of you, but I have been spoiled by your indulgence. So,” he asked, very softly, “would you share this with me?”

“Oh.” The soft exclamation made Oscar smile, unbearably charmed by the way the obvious evaded the otherwise observant Wamba where he himself was concerned. He brushed his thumb along Wamba’s cheek, below eyes that were shining now, with hope and maybe, Oscar dared to believe, something more.

“Wamba?” he prompted, waiting for permission as calmly as he was able while his heart battled to beat a path out of his breast.

Then he heard it, just a whisper over that pounding rhythm, the word he had been waiting for. “Yes.”

Joy exploded like a star within him, shattering Oscar’s restraint in an instant. He dove down at once to place an impassioned kiss on Wamba’s lips. He felt Wamba inhale sharply just before their mouths met for the first time, then had he covered his mouth hard, and their teeth clashed briefly in his eagerness. There was the barest hesitation before Wamba opened beneath him in welcome. His lips parted, and he met Oscar halfway, using his own motions to guide Oscar’s passion, tempering the eager kiss it into a softer caress. Oscar saw his intention at once, and followed the gentle instruction, as naturally in this arena as in any other. He took up the rhythm and concentrated his energy into conveying with every tender foray into that silken mouth the depth of his long-suppressed love. His hands, grasping Wamba’s face, shook with the force of it.

All of his dalliances, every fleeting tryst had been preparation for this, but they faded to pale memory, so completely beyond compare was this kiss, and Oscar thought his body might burst apart from the power and size of his emotion. He felt like he could stay this way forever, standing in this long-awaited embrace in these much beloved surroundings, taking in every inch and breath of this man. After a time, at last, he was able to break away, and stared at Wamba with their brows pressed together and an uncontainable grin on his face.

Wamba returned the smile gently, his dark eyes shining with soft joy. “I thought you had forgotten,” he confided, “or that you had thought better of it and would not offer me this gift again.”

Oscar met the words with another kiss, slow and tender, a simple press of lips. “Do you know me so little as to believe that anything could keep me from you after so many years waiting?”

“No.” Wamba regarded him seriously. “I never had any doubt in the strength of your stubborn heart. I only ever worry that I cannot be worthy of the hopes you place in me. I fear I will fall far short of your expectations.”

“Never,” Oscar swore, running one thumb across his shining lower lip. “There is nothing I could want more than you. You were right to turn me away back then, but the years have not dampened my emotions. My affection has only grown.” He felt his cheeks reddening with the bald sincerity. Wamba gave a broken little laugh, and his hands slid up Oscar’s back and into his hair, urging him back down for another kiss. He gladly followed the gentle urging, letting his body speak what words could not adequately express, the depth of his admiration for this endless contradiction of a man. As he did, he let his own hands explore Wamba’s form through the shield of his robe, tracing the contours of the spare body, before meeting at last at Wamba’s throat. He lifted his mouth from Wamba’s as he set to work undoing the fastening there.

The high collar folded away easily, allowing Oscar’s hands to survey newly discovered territory, running his fingers lightly over the faint scars there, rough marks that he had seen on occasion but never touched. He traced his fingers back to Wamba’s nape, taking a moment to span the graceful neck with his palms before following them with his kiss. Wamba’s head fell back into the cradle of his hands while Oscar let his mouth travel the exposed skin, feeling Wamba’s breath hitch as he tracked a wet trail of kisses down to the hollow of his throat. He reached eagerly for the next stay on the robe, only to find Wamba’s hands already there, offering Oscar as much as he desired.

Insistently tugging the faltering fingers away, Oscar held them in his own as he stepped back, pulling Wamba to the couch by their joined hands. There, he left Wamba to coax the last embers of the fire back into warm life with new fuel and a few precise prods. His blood was racing and his body more than ready, but he forced himself to breathe. It would not do to rush this. He looked back to find Wamba’s eyes watching him with his usual soft approval, though his mussed hair and loosened garment lent him a wanton appearance that sent a sharp spike of renewed desire through Oscar’s body. Once he was sure of the fire, he returned eagerly to continue his campaign of seduction.

He dropped to his knees between Wamba’s legs and took slender hands in his own again, reclaiming that waiting mouth. It was a matter of moments to stoke their passion back to full heat. Wamba pulled his hands free to wrap them around Oscar’s neck with a faint whimper, pulling him close until they were pressed tightly together, chest to chest, putting Oscar where he wanted him even as he let the younger take control of the kiss, yielding to the insistent rhythm of his tongue. Oscar was shaking with his eagerness when he was finally released and granted leave to resume his slow exploration. He loosened Wamba’s robe further and explored the new ground revealed by inches. Two more stays and he had space to run his fingertips along prominent collarbones.

It was there that he found the first scar, curving up wickedly toward the gentle slope of Wamba’s shoulder. Shocked, he stared at it for a moment before he quickly jerked the robe wider, and traced the long line down to where it intersected another and, just over his breastbone, another. Oscar forgot his slow survey entirely and steadily undid the last of the fastenings to pull Wamba’s robe apart, mouth falling open in shock as his arousal cooled. There were eight in all, the lowest curling around Wamba’s waist and biting his hip. Oscar was overcome by an unbearable anger toward whoever had done such a thing to this gentle man. He stared, watching the slow movement of Wamba’s chest as it rose and fell with his breath, the smooth skin of the whip scars catching the firelight, and fought to find his voice.

Finally, he choked out, “Did your master do this?”

A gentle hand brushed his cheek, stroked his jaw. “No. But they were borne for his sake.”

The low admission caused a pressure like a vise to clamp around Oscar’s heart. On impulse, he leaned forward and laid an open-mouthed kiss on Wamba’s chest, exhaling long and warm against the chilled skin. Wamba arched slowly into the touch, his hand soft on Oscar’s neck. Oscar kissed his way up Wamba’s sternum, his throat, until he leaned up to capture his mouth again, unable to express his sorrow but damned if he would let Wamba think it had deterred him.

He was rewarded when his tunic was seized by the shoulders, drawn over his head with insistent tugs. He laughed, pushing away to help Wamba strip him of the shirt, carefully removing the pouch that held his purchased potions from his belt, but throwing his tunic carelessly away as he pushed eagerly back between Wamba’s legs. He pressed them together, skin on skin at last, and groaned at the contact, warmth and delicious flashes of lightning dancing at every point where they touched. Wamba was equally appreciative, if his little gasps in Oscar’s ear and the heel pressed suddenly into the back of Oscar’s thigh was any measure.

Oscar grinned, wrapping both arms low around Wamba’s waist and using the grip to tug him to the edge of the couch, making sparks fly in his vision as their hips met and his own yearning cock brushed Wamba’s through layers of fabric. He savored the sensation, allowing himself one slow roll of his hips that made Wamba shudder against him. Then he slid down to sit back on his heels and press his face to the seat of Wamba’s warmth, breathing in his scent. He nuzzled gently at the cloth that shielded his prize, reaching up to strip away the last barrier, but in spite of the undeniable arousal of his body, Wamba’s suddenly firm grip pushed Oscar away.

“What's wrong?” he asked, hands hovering uncertainly in the air near Wamba’s belly.

Wamba stared down at him, brushing Oscar's hair from his face with gentle fingers and a small frown as he said firmly, “There is no need for that.”

Oscar smiled, as earnestly as he could around the sudden tightness in this throat. Wamba was selfless to the point of foolishness, he knew this, and yet he had not expected the kind man to deny himself even here. He laid his hands on Wamba’s hips, fingers just inching below the waist of his leggings as he said, with all the sincerity he could muster, “I would like nothing better than to love you this way, as well as I am able.”

Moving slowly to allow Wamba a chance to stop him if he wished, Oscar slipped dark wool down over his hips and off, taking his well worn boots with them. He gazed at Wamba, revealed now but for his arms, which were still encased in his long sleeves. His eyes were open and intent, watching Oscar observe him, waiting for his judgment. Oscar drank him in, letting his eyes wander as they wished, and it was so easy to adore him. Wamba was long and lean and graceful, pale skin kissed by the light of the fire. When Oscar gathered the nerve to reach out and touch, he discovered that the lightest caress evoked soft, plaintive moans that made Oscar burn and think he should like nothing better than to coax those sounds from him forever.

Emboldened, he explored freely, trailing his mouth across the smooth belly, up delicate inner thighs, tasting the soft skin there until Wamba’s hands were trembling fists in the robe beneath him, his body arching and gasping. It was only after he was quite satisfied with the state of Wamba’s undoing that Oscar ceased his torment and turned his attention where it was needed most. He hooked a hand beneath Wamba’s thigh and lifted it to rest on his shoulder, propping him open. His fingers kneaded the soft join of the hip intently as he used his other hand to guide Wamba’s lovely cock into his mouth. The weight on his tongue was new but not unwelcome. He licked at the head curiously, exploring the novel taste and texture, before setting to with a will, lavishing slow, thorough attention on eager flesh. He patiently tested different angles, different strokes, until he found what made Wamba shudder. In short order, Oscar had him shaking with the strength of his pleasure, and careful hands threaded into his hair, petting him fitfully.

“Oscar, Oscar,” Wamba gasped, his hands turning insistent, pushing Oscar away in warning, but he refused to be shifted. He took Wamba as deep as he was able, sucking hard, and savoring the sharp cry that announced his tumble into climax, the hands clenching in his hair. Only once Wamba collapsed back to the couch did he pull away gently, licking his lips and staring up at the panting mess he had made of his normally composed lover. For he could say now with honesty that Wamba was his lover. He felt a stab of fierce pride in this accomplishment, and an insistent throb from his own neglected sex.

He slipped Wamba’s leg from his shoulder and slithered up the pliant body to nip affectionately at Wamba’s jaw and ear, his swollen lower lip. Wamba wrapped his arms around Oscar’s shoulders and nuzzled his cheek, then tilted his head to bring them together in another searing kiss, receiving the taste of himself from Oscar’s mouth. When he broke away, it was to ask hoarsely, “What can I do for you?”

Oscar answered him with another consuming kiss, pouring his love into that single act. “Touch me.” He was too close to even consider the thought of anything more. He yearned after Wamba’s hands on him, leaning into his heat and panting into his mouth. “Please, touch me.”

One of Wamba’s hands slid at once from his shoulder, skating down his chest to tug at the laces of his painfully constricted trousers. Oscar gasped with relief as the leather thong gave way and the pressure released. Then Wamba’s hand was burrowing in to take him in a sure grip, stroking him and making his hips twitch in instinctive rhythm. Oscar leaned his head on Wamba’s shoulder, panting harshly as his pleasure crested and he crushed Wamba to him, trapping his arm between them but unable to care as he spent himself with a shout.

He stayed there for long moments, his skin sparking and twitching while his vision gradually cleared. When he at last lifted his head to stare into Wamba’s eyes, joy swelled in his chest at the smile that met him. He kissed Wamba again, laughing against his lips and feeling the answering chuckle vibrate through his chest.

“Thank you.” His eyes began to droop and his strength to drain from his limbs, chased by the lethargy of release. Oscar spared a moment to ponder how they were going to make the impossible journey to the bed, but Wamba solved the problem by pulling him up into surprisingly strong arms and tipping them both over on the couch. He settled Oscar partly atop him and wound both arms tightly around his back, as unwilling to relinquish the embrace as Oscar felt. He hummed happily, savoring the warm scent of Wamba’s skin and the caress of gentle hands along his shoulder blades, lulling him toward sleep.

“Shall I bring a blanket?” he muttered, though he was not at all confident in his ability to fulfill the offer.

Wamba tightened his grip. “If you move, I swear I will throw you into the fire.”

Oscar laughed softly and tucked his head into the crook of Wamba’s neck. “As you wish.”

He did not know how long he drifted, only that it was full dark when he woke atop Wamba, with his head resting comfortably in the dip of his narrow chest. Lazily, he rubbed his cheek against his lover’s skin, and raised his head just enough to kiss one flat nipple. He trailed his lips along Wamba’s breastbone, feeling the elder stir under the gentle caress.

His mood was dampened somewhat when he tried to lift himself and found that he was stuck fast to Wamba by the remains of their earlier pleasure. He huffed a wry laugh, looking up to find an echoing amusement in lidded dark eyes. He pulled away gingerly, with a grimace, and shifted up to kiss Wamba.

“Hello,” he murmured against smiling lips, drinking up the open affection in Wamba’s gaze as eagerly as a man lost in the desert finding water at last.

“Hello, Oscar.”

“I think we both need a bath,” Oscar noted, pushing himself to his feet. He crouched before the fire and began to prod it back to life.

“It must be far too late by now,” Wamba said doubtfully. He sat up, pulling the edges of his robe closed against the chill that had permeated the library.

Oscar smiled over his shoulder and gave him an impish wink. “Fear not. It will be the work of a moment.”

Wamba laughed and subsided, settling back against the couch. “Do as you will, Oscar. I’ve clearly no power to convince you otherwise.”

Oscar tied the laces of his trousers and kissed Wamba once more before he made his way into the bedroom and lit the fire there as well, building it high to warm the spacious room. He poked his head out into the corridor to find that the kitchen girls had granted his earlier request. Buckets of water stood in a neat line along the wall, waiting to be retrieved. He pulled them into the bedroom two at a time, before closing and barring the door once more. Heating the water took some time, and his mind wandered frequently to the man in the adjacent room, the vision of what he had looked like undone by pleasure setting Oscar’s body singing anew. He caught himself more than once running his fingers along his own lips, savoring the tenderness left by countless kisses.

He returned to the library to see Wamba gazing intently into the fire. He crept up behind, leaning over the couch to lay kisses on his neck, just below his ear, winning a soft sound of approval. “Your bath is ready,” he murmured, relishing the way his voice made Wamba shudder.

“Thank you, Oscar.” Wamba pulled away from him with obvious reluctance, following the call of hot water in the bedroom. Oscar stood and watched him go, uncertain whether he should follow, until Wamba paused in the doorway, and looked back with a faint but inviting smile. “Would you like to join me?”

Oscar felt a wide grin stretch his lips. He attended at once, stopping short just inside the bedchamber to watch Wamba’s silhouette for a long moment, swaying in the light of the fire, before he let himself approach. Behind the bathing screen, he laid his hands on Wamba’s shoulders. He stood close enough for his breath to stir Wamba’s hair, gently but insistently taking up the task of undoing the haphazardly tied fastenings of Wamba’s robe. His arms easily circled the narrow chest, and Wamba relinquished control at once, releasing a soft sigh and dipping his shoulders to allow the robe to fall off smoothly when Oscar slid it away.

Oscar felt his fingers go numb. Distantly, he heard the heavy sound of cloth collapsing to the floor, but he was unable to move to stop it, so complete was the shock that consumed him as Wamba’s skin was revealed. They were scars. Layer upon layer of awful white lines slashed across Wamba’s skin, laid thick across the wings of his shoulders and tapering away toward his waist, a canvas painted in agony. Oscar heard a sob, and realized that it had come from his own throat. He seized Wamba to him, wrapping both arms tight around his waist, and fought to breathe through rising tears. The marks on his chest, horrible enough in their own right, had been only a prelude to this, evidence of an unfathomable cruelty.

Oscar laid his head down on Wamba’s shoulder, and gasped through his desperate incomprehension. He felt Wamba’s hands settle atop his arms, with the same gentle reassurance he had offered earlier. “It is past.”

The quiet dismissal of the marks and all they represented made Oscar tighten his arms still further. He choked, “Why? What could you ever do to deserve this?”

Wamba’s fingers stroked across his wrists, gentling him as though it were he who had borne the suffering of those lashes. “I chose it, Oscar,” he said quietly. “I made a fool of a powerful man knowing full well the price I would pay.”

The calm words did nothing to quiet Oscar’s heart. He gave in to his anguish at last, and sobbed, “What could possibly be worth such a price?”

“There are many things worth such a sacrifice.” The words echoed familiar in Oscar’s ears, a parallel to Wamba's admonition to him on the day they met. “These marks bought the freedom of my master and the life of his son. They bought victory over a Norman tyrant.”

“I don’t understand,” he gasped, tears leaking down his cheeks. They fell to trail down the patchwork of scars that he still could not quite bring himself to examine.

Abruptly, Wamba pulled away, breaking free from Oscar’s hold with one final pat to his arm and kneeling to retrieve his robe. “I will cover them,” he said. Oscar watched him move, the bones of his shoulders and ribs shifting under the blanket of scars. Oscar’s hand reached out, hovering uncertainly over the marks, until a hollow little laugh reached his ears. “I admit I had not expected to disappoint you quite so soon.”

The resignation in that quiet voice shook Oscar from his stupor at last. “No!” He fell to his knees behind Wamba, enveloping him once again in an urgent embrace, molding his body around Wamba’s as though to shield him from further harm. “They do not disgust me. I just did not expect…” he swallowed, and leaned his head against Wamba’s shoulder. “I had no idea you had endured such pain.”

Wamba huffed softly, reaching up to run long fingers through Oscar’s hair. “Still so innocent, even knowing all that you do of me.” Oscar held him crushingly tight, wondering if he would never truly be done discovering Wamba. His thoughts were disturbed when Wamba shivered against him, bringing his attention to the goose flesh rising along pale skin.

“Come on,” he said gently. “Get into the bath before it cools.” He helped Wamba to his feet and held his hand to steady him as he stepped over the high wooden side of the bath and settled into the hot water with a relieved sigh. He looked back over his shoulder at Oscar, folding his legs and shifting forward to make room.

Oscar took the wordless invitation, stripping off his trousers once more and stepping into the bath behind Wamba. He was careful of his limbs as he lowered himself, stretching his legs out to either side of Wamba and pulling his lover back to rest against his chest. Wamba leaned on him with a contended hum, chuckling as Oscar’s hand wandered across his chest, teasing along the edges of his ribs and dipping into his navel. He lifted handfuls of water to rinse Wamba’s chest and belly clean, his touch lingering and intimate.

They wallowed comfortably for a while, until the water became noticeably cooler and Oscar took up a handful of soft soap to wash them both in earnest. Wamba submitted to his cosseting with a chuckle that hitched on a gasp when Oscar’s hands swept up his thighs and between his legs. Oscar did not linger, but carried on up his body with purpose. When he was done with Wamba’s thin arms and chest, he eased him forward to work on his shoulders and back, and looked at the scars properly for the first time.

“Do they still hurt?” he asked, tracing his fingers just above the intricate web that adorned Wamba’s shoulders.

“At times,” Wamba said quietly, holding himself still under Oscar’s exploratory touch.

“Are they the source of your pains?”

“In part,” came the quiet response.

Oscar stroked just the tips of his fingers along the glassy smooth lines, nothing like the soft and supple skin of his chest. He put his mouth to them next to taste the difference with his tongue. Wamba bent his head to give Oscar room, exposing his vulnerable nape. Unable to resist that temptation, Oscar nipped at the bone that marked the top of Wamba’s spine, kissing at the faint thatch of scars decorating his neck. They were faint, but formed a pattern, almost like the weave of a rope. “What makes marks like this?” he asked, letting his hands span Wamba’s neck, fingers meeting at his throat.

Wamba chuckled. “Why, hanging, of course.”

“What?” Oscar gaped. “You were hanged?”

“As you can see, it did not take.” Wamba’s voice was glib, but Oscar heard the dark note that marked his levity as false. He remembered Ivanhoe’s comment to the king, nearly forgotten, and clearly no jest but the truth after all.

Wrapping both arms around Wamba’s waist, he leaned his chin on a sharp shoulder and asked, “Will you tell me what happened?”

“Yes, I will,” Wamba murmured. “Now? Or would you rather…” he trailed off, turning his head to offer his mouth and Oscar took it, bending his neck to dive into that pleasure again, one hand settling on Wamba’s jaw to hold him in place.

Not satisfied with the angle, he caught Wamba by the hips and used his grip to turn him. Wamba followed easily, settling astride Oscar’s thighs with legs folded to either side. Wet hands skidded along Oscar’s cheeks, pulling him in for another deep kiss that soon had his cock filling and his mind relinquishing all thoughts that were not of claiming Wamba in every way he could. Without breaking the kiss, he pressed his hand between Wamba’s thighs, cupping his hardening flesh gently, then pushing further back to delicately explore the little indentation where his body opened. Wamba moaned softly around Oscar’s tongue, his hips twitching down, seeking a firmer touch.

Oscar released his mouth. “Is this alright?” he breathed, looking up into blown eyes.

“Yes, of course.” Wamba smiled. In a smooth motion, he knelt up and spread his thighs as far as the wooden sides of the bath would allow, offering Oscar permission to explore as he liked. Giddy with curiosity and anticipation, Oscar let his fingers map out the smooth patch of skin and the intriguing little knot just behind it, pushing carefully and feeling the muscle give just a little. His cock jumped, and he knew he had to take them further or risk spilling himself again too soon, but first he needed to get them to the bed. Perhaps later, when he knew Wamba’s body as well as his own, they could revisit the bath and all its possibilities. This first time, he wanted to see.

He braced his arms on the sides of the wooden tub and pushed himself to his feet, displacing Wamba, who looked up at him from his knees with a questioning gaze. Oscar stepped out of the bath and held out a hand to Wamba, helping him out after. He pulled the bath sheet from the screen wrapped it around Wamba, drawing it lingeringly along his limbs, soaking up the moisture on his skin.

“I’m hardly a child that I need such tending,” Wamba teased him, eyes glinting with amusement.

Oscar let the sheet fall away, pulling him in by his hips to press their bodies together from shoulder to knees. They both shuddered as their cocks greeted one another in a silken caress, and Oscar leaned down to breathe in Wamba’s ear. “I told you I wanted to take care of you. That has not changed.” He hardly recognized his own voice, so hoarse was it, destroyed by lust.

“Then you should do so,” Wamba murmured, placing a tender kiss on his jaw.

A lustful madness crashed over him, driving him to action before he had a chance to think. He wrenched himself away and tugged Wamba after him to the bed, lifting him bodily to drop him on the furs. It was only then that he remembered the oil, still in the pouch in the library. He cursed, and placed a hasty kiss on Wamba’s lips as he said, “Just a moment.”

Oscar ran into the library as fast as his legs would carry him, snatching up his belt from the floor beneath the couch and pulling out the orange bottle that Rachel had given him. The other he left on the table, to be retrieved later if it was needed. It served as a stark reminder of the old woman’s warning, the truth that he must take a considered path rather than let his baser urges control him.

He returned to the bedroom slightly more sober to find Wamba waiting for him, lounging against the pillows with his legs sprawled, his arousal on display and a flush on his cheeks. His dark eyes watched Oscar, and one hand extended to him, a silent invitation. He clasped Wamba’s hand in his own, climbing up to kneel between his legs and take his lips once more, absurdly elated that Wamba never seemed to grow tired of kisses. On the contrary, he welcomed each one gratefully, yearning after Oscar when their mouth parted. Bearing Wamba down to the mattress, his hips settled in the cradle of slim thighs as he ground them together, earning a soft moan. He sucked hard at the delicate skin of Wamba’s throat, where the pulse pounded just beneath his tongue, savoring the rabbit fast beat as the proof of Wamba’s desire. He pulled away only far enough to hold the bottle between them, pulling the cork free with a pop.

“Where did you get that?” Wamba asked him.

Oscar's cheeks burned. “From an authority on such things,” he said sheepishly.

Wamba frowned at him for a moment, before realization stole over his face and he began to laugh. Oscar’s cheeks burned, but Wamba pulled him in and softened the sting of his amusement with gentle kisses to Oscars brow and eyes. “I should have liked to have witnessed that conversation,” he said warmly.

“Thank all the saints that you did not,” Oscar grumbled, but he accepted the affectionate kisses and returned them with more of his own.

“Here,” Wamba said, taking the bottle from Oscar’s hand. He sniffed it delicately, apparently finding it acceptable as he dipped two fingers into the neck of the bottle and slipped them down between his legs. Oscar watched transfixed as Wamba spread the oil on his own skin, circling once before a finger disappeared inside his body. The second joined it in short order, before they were withdrawn to return to the bottle for more oil.

“May I?” Oscar asked breathlessly, eager to learn this skill for himself.

“Please,” Wamba said, offering him the bottle. Oscar slicked his fingers, but he was not so confident as Wamba. He laid them gently against the little muscle, testing it for a moment, rubbing and teasing until Wamba tilted his hips up, pressing back against him. Only then did he breach Wamba’s body, just one finger inching its way inside. Wamba hummed, closing his eyes against the tender invasion as Oscar marveled at the close embrace of the warm channel.

Fascinated, Oscar slid down Wamba’s body and carefully hooked his free hand under Wamba’s knee, lifting one leg up to rest over his shoulder, giving himself more room. He pressed a second finger in to join the first, working them slowly and savoring the little gasps the movement wrung from Wamba. He bent down to lay teasing little licks along the soft inner slopes of Wamba’s sharp hipbones, the valleys between his ribs, the length of his cock as Wamba melted under him.

He went back for more oil, remembering what his brother had said about pain, and began to stretch his fingers apart, testing the tight grip of Wamba’s body. Worryingly, it did not seem to be easing as much as he anticipated, despite the patient attention. He asked, doubtfully, “Are you certain it will fit?”

Wamba laughed, a sweet, happy sound that resonated through his body, and craned up to kiss Oscar again. “You are most impressive, love, but I assure you I will have no trouble taking you.”

Oscar’s heart skipped and his breath caught to hear Wamba call him that, and he swooped down irresistibly to claim another devouring kiss. Wamba opened to him at once, hands on his sides and a heel at the small of his back pulling him in.

“I would not cause you pain,” Oscar found the presence of mind to gasp.

Wamba smiled up at him softly, stroking his face with tender fingers. “That is nearly unavoidable, I fear, but it is fleeting, and I hardly notice it anymore.”

Wamba took him in his slick hand, aligning them so Oscar only had to push and finally, finally they were joined, naturally and beautifully as though their bodies had indeed been designed for this union. Oscar’s vision blurred and his breath stalled as pressed fully inside. He realized that he had been that way, motionless, for several moments, when Wamba pushed against him, urging him on with soft, eager words and the pressure of his leg on Oscar’s shoulder, coaxing him into a rocking rhythm. Oscar took up the cadence, quickly overcome by the sensation.

He dropped down to take Wamba’s mouth again, finding himself eagerly met and held. They moved together, wrapped tightly around one another, as tension coiled tight in Oscar’s gut, building with each thrust into the lithe body beneath him. Wamba folded himself around his lover, his free leg rising to wrap around Oscar’s waist as his arms clung tight to Oscar’s shoulders, desperate little exhalations sending bursts of heat across Oscar’s throat, until he bent and captured Wamba mouth again. Wamba surrendered to his kiss easily, jaw opening wide to let Oscar take his mouth as thoroughly as he was his body, thrusting his tongue in counterpoint to the sharp movements of his hips. Finally, he felt Wamba draw tight around him, swallowing his cry as his pleasure crested, and it was mere moment later that the world spun away from him. He succumbed to fiery bliss, crying his lover’s name.

His arms trembled and folded, and he fell into Wamba’s welcoming embrace, gasping into his neck as he drifted in a fog of contentment. He returned slowly to the sensation of Wamba’s hands playing slowly over the spent muscles of his shoulders and his damp head. Carefully, he lowered Wamba’s leg from his shoulder to rest on the furs, easing his strain. It required such a tremendous effort to pull himself from Wamba’s body that he felt he could die from the loss of that closeness, as though he might never feel such completeness again. He wrapped his arms around Wamba and hugged him tightly, awash in adoration. Wamba’s lips brushed his brow, and he tightened his arms more securely around the narrow chest. He was loath to succumb to sleep, to end this sublime moment. If he woke to find it had all been a dream, he did not think he could bear it.

It was only the chill of the room, creeping back now as his muscles cooled, that had him groaning and pulling away. He was surprised when Wamba’s stopped him, holding him in place. “Stay a moment,” he murmured drowsily.

“Am I not crushing you?” Oscar asked.

Wamba pressed his body up against Oscar’s weight in a satisfied stretch. He smiled, lidded eyes content. “You feel perfect.”

“We’re going to stick together again,” Oscar warned him.

Wamba chuckled. “Learned that lesson in one, did you?”

Oscar could not help but laugh as well, pressing his brow against Wamba’s. He leaned down to taste that lovely smile, brushing Wamba’s hair back from his damp brow.

“Despite all appearances, your teaching has not been entirely for naught.”

“I know,” Wamba assured him, and in his eyes was everything Oscar had been longing for. Wamba leaned up for one more kiss, and whispered against his lips, “Thank you, Oscar. Thank you for this.”

Oscar did not know what lay ahead of them, what challenges this delicate new thing between them would bring, but he was grateful, more grateful than he could say, that he had been caught that day in the counting room. It was a long road, but every frustration, every struggle, every uncertainty was a price he would willingly pay again, providing only that that his path each time brought him here in the end, to the place where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex. Oscar is 18.
> 
> End Part Three


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, it’s all backstory. Oscar and Wamba’s story will continue in the sequel.
> 
> This chapter and those that follow parallel many of the events of the second half of _Ivanhoe_. While not strictly required, even a passing familiarity with the plot of the novel will help these chapters make a lot more sense. I do provide the broad strokes, but if you’re interested in a more thorough synopsis try [this great summary](http://www.shmoop.com/ivanhoe/summary.html). And if you're daring enough to brave the original text in all it's wordy glory, you can read the chapters that bit me and started this whole thing [here](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ivanhoe/Chapter_26) and [here](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ivanhoe/Chapter_27).

_Torquilstone burned._

_Cedric charged through the barbican gate, a borrowed blade in his hand and a hundred loyal men at his back. The Black Knight hurtled on ahead of him, clearing the portcullis with great sweeps of his powerful arms that tossed their enemies back into the bailey, opening the way to the keep, whose black stones bled dark smoke into the sky as though from a mortal wound. Close behind Cedric, Locksley shouted a command to his archers, and they broke from the main force to pour at once up the stone stairs to the battlements on either side of the gate, tossing the last of Front-de-Boeuf’s soldiers who had yet to retreat from that line over the parapet and into the moat below._

_With the outer gate fallen, the great doors of the keep stood as the last barrier between the Saxon force and the Normans who hid within that frail protection, seeking to stall the justice due for their villainous deeds. Through the scheming of Front-de-Boeuf and his allies, Cedric’s ward Rowena was captive within Torquilstone still, and Athelstane, last of the line of true Saxon kings. Cedric himself would be among their number, but for the sacrifice of his loyal jester. His throat tightened to remember Wamba, the shock at seeing the friar’s cassock thrown off to reveal that familiar manic smile, to hear him offer his life in place of his master’s. It was only at Athelstane’s insistence that Cedric accepted, trading his cloak for Wamba’s disguise and making his way to freedom, leaving his slave to bear the brunt of Front-de-Boeuf’s anger for robbing him of his noble captive and the ample ransom he meant to secure._

_Cedric had promised to return for them all, to deliver them from unjust captivity, and had quit the castle to find himself in the company of several hundred like-minded woodsmen, led by the archer Locksley and the mysterious Black Knight, who steadfastly refused to reveal his identity, though he fought like a lion as he led them to battle, with all the ferocity that had been lacking in his performance at the tournament grounds of Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Less than a day after Cedric emerged to lead this company, their attack had conquered even Torquilstone’s great walls, and the keep lay before them, their foe ready to be subdued. With a great shout, Cedric lifted his sword high and charged, parrying a blow aimed at the back of the Black Knight and driving the attacker back. The ranks of brave Saxons let out an answering cry, following him into the renewed battle, with Locksley’s archers raining down a hail of arrows from atop the battlements. They pressed hard, forcing the Norman soldiers back toward the gate, and witnessed their enemies fall like chaff before the greater skill and resolve of the woodsmen. Cedric noted when De Bracy entered the fray and engaged with the Black Knight, but he left them to their duel and focused on the gate, elated with the victory that lay now within their grasp._

_“Saxon!”_

_Cedric heard the shout, and looked around for its source, stopping still as he his eyes settled on the one who hailed him. The woodsmen flowed around him, pressing on, but he paid them no mind. Atop the ramparts, Front-de-Boeuf had appeared. The Norman had joined the fight for the gate earlier, only to flee when it became clear that his forces would be overwhelmed. He retreated like the cowardly cur Cedric knew him to be, and now he had returned, his face was twisted in rage and still dressed for battle, in radiant silver armor and helm. In his hand, however, he brandished not a sword toward Cedric, but a body._

_Cedric sucked in a breath through a tightening throat as he recognized that form. Wamba hung listless from the Norman’s ferocious grip on his nape. Blood ran down his hands from the crimson ropes that bound them before him. The boy’s head hung so his hair covered his face, and his clothes swung in rags on his slight frame, obscuring his shape. From a distance, it was impossible to tell whether he was aware, or even alive._

_“Saxon!” Front-de-Boeuf bellowed again. “I have come to return your slave. Or what is left of him!”_

_Cedric watched helpless, his heart shuddering oddly, as the Norman slung a noose about Wamba’s neck, pulling it cruelly tight, and Cedric realized suddenly that the boy’s neck was bare of his collar, that they had removed it for this purpose. The rope scraped the exposed skin, and another thin rivulet of blood appeared to trail down his throat. Cedric read Front-de-Boeuf’s intention with a wash of horror, but there was nothing to be done._

_“No!”_

_The cry rose up from deep within him, though he was painfully aware how futile the protest was, as Front-de-Boeuf heaved forward and pitched Wamba’s limp form over the edge of the ramparts. The rope was not long. The thin body jerked to a stop almost at once, swinging against the stones of the wall. Wamba kicked once, twice, and hung still. Cedric ran toward the wall, fist clenched helplessly around the hilt of his sword, but Wamba remained a full arm length beyond the reach of his hands. He beat his fist uselessly against the stone, cursing the Norman villain._

_“Lord Saxon,” he heard a call. “Catch him!” Cedric looked back in time to see Locksley nodding grimly to him from his perch atop the battlements. The next moment, he was in action, firing two swift shots from his bow up toward the wall. The first bounced uselessly from the stones, and Cedric’s heart sank, but the second found its target, severing the rope that held Wamba suspended._

_Without the rope to hold him, the jester dropped like a stone. Cedric abandoned his sword just in time to cushion the fall, though taking the weight forced him to his knees. He brushed Wamba’s hair back, seeking signs of life, and Cedric choked as he caught sight of the boy’s face at last. His features were a mask of injury, battered and bloody. A dark bruise spread across the right side of his face, from his eye to the line of his jaw. A long, bleeding gouge was sliced through the heart of it, leaving dried spider web patterns down his cheek. His lips were cracked, and the corner of his mouth was torn. Blood ran down his cheek from under his hair._

_Cedric stared, unable to think as he viewed the damage done to his slave, until Locksley dropped to his knees beside them and took Wamba from Cedric’s arms. He laid the boy out on the grass, tilting his head up to carefully cut the rope that bound his neck. One hand at his throat and the other at his mouth gauged his breathing. A large smile painted his features when he finally raised his head to look at Cedric. “He lives!”_

_Cedric was stunned at the force of the relief that washed over him, incomprehensibly for the sake of a slave. Locksley was lifting Wamba again, and Cedric raised his arms just in time to catch him as Locksley dropped the battered form in his grasp. “What are you doing?” he demanded._

_“He needs a healer at once,” said the archer._

_“There are any number of men who can take him,” Cedric said harshly. “I cannot quit the castle now.” In truth, he wanted nothing more than to convey Wamba at once to the camp and the healers there, but his honor would not let him leave the field of battle while the enemy still stood and his men still fought._

_Locksley’s bright gaze was searching, obscured as it was by the growing haze of the smoke. “You’ve done your part, my lord,” the young man said firmly. “The men have taken much strength from your presence. No other could have rallied them so. Our victory is assured. His life is not.”_

_Cedric fought with himself for one long, conflicted moment before he gave in to the unfamiliar demands of his heart. He stood, and lifted Wamba into a firmer hold, nodding at Locksley. “I will return once I have seen him safely to the healers.”_

_“Then we will be sure to leave you a Norman or two to wet your blade,” Locksley grinned, before he bounded off again, fleet footed as the deer that roamed the wood._

_Cedric held Wamba’s unconscious form tightly to him as he made his way back through the barbican gate, disturbed by how light the jester was in his arms. His habitual unrelenting babble wrote his personality so large that it was easy to forget how frail he was in body. Drained, broken, he hung in his master’s arms like a battered scarecrow in overlarge rags. His breath too shallow to observe, looking at him Cedric was hard pressed to believe that he lived. Carrying him thus, Cedric made his way swiftly back to the makeshift army’s haphazard camp, skirting the edges of the trees to the far rear, where healers were gathered to meet the wounded who returned from the battle that now raged anew beyond the dense wall of the forest. The clearing was littered with men who had been pulled from beneath Torquilstone’s walls during the regroup that followed the first advance. There, Cedric found his own physician, come out from Rotherwood with the rest when he learned of their violent intentions._

_“William!” Cedric called. The old physician was engaged tending to a writhing woodsman with a crossbow bolt buried in his shoulder, but he came immediately to his feet, leaving his patient to a friar, when he caught sight of Cedric and his deathly still burden._

_“My lord!” the normally unshakeable man exhaled his disbelief. “I had heard rumor that our Wamba was prisoner to Front-de-Boeuf. It was not so?”_

_“It was so.” Cedric’s grim tone and grave face spoke his displeasure. “The good woodsman Locksley has just this moment delivered him from the Norman’s noose. But I fear his effort will not suffice to keep our knave long in this world, if you cannot be spared to minister to him now.”_

_The physician called to two servants setting up a tent nearby, and Cedric relinquished Wamba to them reluctantly. There were a number of similar tents erected about the perimeter of the clearing for the tending of more delicate wounds, and it was to one of these that William conveyed the small party, holding the cloth aside so that the two men bearing Wamba, followed closely by Cedric, could enter before him. The moment the flap fell closed he set to work._

_“Bring hot water and cloths.” When the servants had gone, he turned to Cedric. “Your blade, my lord, if I might.”_

_The Saxon removed the short knife in his belt and placed it into the waiting hand. The physician sliced carefully through the ropes that still bound Wamba’s wrists and began to pull the tough cords away, but they were fixed tight to the jester’s skin. It was not until a dispatched servant returned with water that he was able to slowly work the ropes free. He turned Wamba, with help, and wet the stained tunic he wore in the same manner. Only once it was thoroughly saturated did he began to cut, slowing often to ease away particularly stubborn patches._

_When he finally parted the cloth, Cedric felt bile rise abruptly in his throat, but he forced himself not to look away. The whole expanse of Wamba’s back was in ribbons, dozens of razor sharp lines overlapping in a terrible lattice across his skin. One of the servants looked ill. William’s face was dark. “These are not wounds inflicted in any honorable battle. Front-de-Boeuf has taken a most terrible revenge.”_

_Wamba’s flayed back was not the extent of the injuries they were to find, however. Attempting to lift him away from the destroyed garment, they found it similarly attached at the front. It took more water and patience to work it free and discover that bloody lashes marred his chest as well, though thankfully few in number. The leggings were last, and came away easily, but a cursory examination of Wamba’s lower body revealed at least one broken bone as well as scattered bruises and blood. Wamba’s head lolled as they turned him, his eyes closed and lips parted in the semblance of sleep, and Cedric was grateful he was not aware to suffer the pain of the handling._

_William concluded after observation that before any curatives could be applied, Wamba must be cleaned so that the true extent of the damage could be known. To this end, he sent the two servants in search of more water and clean linen. While they were about this mission, the physician himself forced a displaced shoulder back into its proper alignment with a sickening crack and began spooning water down Wamba’s throat, checking carefully to ensure that it did not mistakenly travel into his lungs._

_Throughout all of this, Cedric remained. The servants, upon their return, brought with them not only the needed water, but also a message from Locksley and his compatriots that Cedric should remain at his slave’s side as long as he wished. It was this, more than anything, which firmed his resolve to tarry no longer than his conscience absolutely required. He watched as his faithful jester was lifted so that his wounds could be bathed, but finally forced himself away. Both Cedric and William departed to their postponed duties, the physician ordering that he be informed as soon as Wamba was clean. Cedric made no such request as he headed back into the fray._

_By the time he entered Torquilstone’s bailey once more, the gate had fallen and the Saxon forced had invaded the keep, the Black Knight gone with the defeated De Bracy into the burning citadel to find the surviving prisoners. Cedric plunged after them, his urgency to find his ward returned to the fore now that Wamba’s safety was assured. Inside the castle, he was faced with a scene from hell. Smoke filled the arched corridors, stinging in his eyes and burning in his lungs. The foreboding glow of flames danced on the walls of the east facing passages, filling the space with oppressive heat. He pressed on, in the direction of the upper cells where he knew Rowena would be, refusing to contemplate failure. It was with great relief that he came upon her at last, unharmed and seeking her own way out. He led her toward the gate and safety, hope growing in his breast, only to be dashed as he arrived at the doors just in time to see Athelstane fall under the sword of Bois-Guilbert._

_He lost sight of them again in the mayhem, and concentrated his effort on conveying Rowena safely to the camp. It was only afterward that he learned that Bois-Guilbert had escaped, and Athelstane lay gravely wounded. These formed the dark spots on the great, bright truth that they had triumphed. Front-de-Boeuf was dead, his castle burned, and the Normans defeated. Tomorrow, Cedric would meet Locksley and the Black Knight to discuss the disposition of what had been reclaimed from the castle. For this evening, the men had plenty to eat and free flowing drink, and with them a reason to celebrate. He left them to it, taking himself instead to the tents, where his mind dwelled. Athelstane was still being treated, his wound bleeding steadily and without slowing. Cedric was of no use while the healers sought to save him, so he ventured across the clearing to find Wamba instead._

_Entering the small tent, Athelstane’s precarious state heavy on his mind, Cedric found a much quieter scene. Wamba was wrapped warmly in blankets and being attended by one of the two servants who had been assisting in his earlier care. Cedric pulled the blankets away, and a quick look revealed that the boy was now bound in clean linen from hips to armpits. Similar bandages circled his neck, wrists, and one splinted foot. The wounds on his face shone with the slickness of healing salve, liberally applied. He rewound the displaced blankets, making sure that they were close around Wamba, before he went in search of William. He found the physician pallid and exhausted, sitting on an upturned pail in front of a nearby tent._

_“You have had a taxing day.” It served by way of greeting, as Cedric sank to rest on a carved stool that a servant had hurriedly transported for his use, accepting a flagon of weak ale offered by another._

_“As have you, my lord. How fares the Lord Coningsburgh?”_

_Cedric shook his head. “His condition worsens ever. I fear there is naught to be done for him. Once welcomed, we cannot be called back from heaven’s kingdom. I thank you, however, for it is only your care and His mercy that have saved me from being required to send two of my family to those gates this day.”_

_The physician dismissed the praise with a wave of his hand. “It were little art of mine that saved him, and more credit to his stubborn spirit that allowed him to endure so much and yet return to us. Even now, though, we cannot be sure that he will not succumb to his wounds.”_

_“You think he may die?” Cedric clenched his fingers tight about his cup, his body rejecting the very thought._

_“I have set servants to his care, and they will give him water so that his blood might be restored. If his strength can hold until morning, I believe that we might then be assured of his recovery. The lad is stronger than we knew, to bear such and survive. Though he may wish he had not.” William placed his head in his hands and rubbed his face as though to banish the remembered sight. “I have never seen such deliberate cruelty in all my years. These Normans are truly a heartless breed.”_

_Cedric’s eyes narrowed. “These words are unlike you. What Saxon would escape alive from Norman chains and wish that he had not?”_

_“I know no man who would suffer what he has and not desire death over freedom with the memory of the torture.” He saw Cedric’s ire rising, and hurried his explanation. “He has been most terribly violated, my lord. The devil take those who have done this to him, for they will surely find no pardon from God.” It was as good as a curse from the reserved physician. Cedric felt the blood in his veins turn icy._

_“You cannot mean,” he began, but found he could not put the rest of the thought into words._

_“I mean that while, thank all the saints, our women escaped unscathed, another has suffered the fate their captors intended for them.”_

_Cedric felt his head begin to throb dully. He licked dry lips. “How can you be sure?”_

_“Blood is a trail as strong as the scent of the mark to the hound. I am in no measure uncertain in this, or I would say nothing of it. He has been violently used, and I tell you, my lord, in the hope that you might find some way to heal him, for no potion I can craft will mend those wounds.”_

_The physician pushed himself slowly to his feet, turned and entered the tent behind him. Cedric did not move, absorbing what he had been told. His words to Ulrica, spoken in ignorance, came back to him in a rush of shame. He could never find it in himself to say the same to Wamba, and yet he condemned for a coward a woman who was a stranger to him, told her she would have done better to take her own life rather than bear the shame. At the time, he had believed the words wholeheartedly._

_He did not know what change such a violation would bring about in Wamba, or how he should approach the boy when he woke. It was the jester who lightened the burden of those things which weighed always heavy on his master’s shoulders. Being perfectly frank with himself, Cedric harbored a deep uncertainty that comfort could pass in the opposite direction._

_An old guilt crept upon him as he reflected on his history with his slave, remembering the silent, timorous child he had been before the jovial knave had taken his place. He recalled the dramatic transformation and wondered what change this new wrinkle would create. He wondered many things as he stared into the trees, but presently came to himself and returned to the main encampment, where he was expected. There would be time to learn what was required of him once Wamba woke. Tonight, he could only wait and wonder. If any of his allies noticed the weight of the new knowledge on his heart, they asked him no questions._


	57. Chapter 57

_Athelstane passed in the night. Cedric was woken by a wary servant bearing a torch in the early hours of the morning, to attend as the only remaining bearer of royal Saxon blood received his last rites and departed the world of the living, taking Cedric’s final hopes for a new dynasty in England with him. He watched as the servants prepared the body for transport, loading it onto a cart that would carry it first to a nearby abbey for a brief vigil and then to his mother’s home at Coningsburgh for burial._

_Word spread quickly, and many came to offer their regrets as the camp woke and some of their number began preparations to depart. Later that morning, Cedric attended upon the departure of Rowena and her train, which included all but two of those who had come out from Rotherwood to their aid. The physician William remained to minister to his charges, and Gurth stayed also, to attend upon Cedric and because his steadfast, stubborn soul refused to depart without Wamba at his side. Cedric did not press the issue, for he understood the swineherd’s concern for his constant companion, and indeed it was only moments after the lady and her company had disappeared from sight that he himself returned to the tent where Wamba lay, unmoving._

_The camp had emptied considerably with the departure of all those but Locksley’s companions and the few who remained to tend to the dead and the dying. It was a calm glade that greeted the Saxon, the only movement the flutter of a tent at one patient’s restless movement. The flaps on Wamba’s tent had been secured open, letting the gentle sunlight in to warm its occupant. Cedric slipped beneath the canopy where Wamba lay just as he had been the previous evening. The Saxon studied the still features for a long time, tracing the patterns of the bruises they bore. The physician was more confident now that Wamba would recover, and Cedric could not allow the alternative. He remained for a span, praying silently for his slave’s recovery._

_That afternoon, nearly a day after his rescue, Wamba was taken by fever and began to fight against the blankets in a delirium. Seeing signs of life in him after the long deathly stillness, Cedric could not stifle the elation he felt, tinged as it was with worry. Two men were required to unwind and reapply Wamba's bandages, and force a concoction of roots down his throat. It was during this interval that the tent flap was pulled aside and Locksley entered. He stopped short at the sight of Wamba’s raw back, observing in grave silence his feeble struggles where he lay pinned on his stomach. When the others had gone again and Wamba had quieted into a drugged sleep, he and Cedric sat for a while under the shade of the great oaks that lined the clearing. After a time the bowman gathered himself to voice his thoughts._

_“He has suffered much in his life.” It was spoken thoughtfully, a conclusion reached after lengthy consideration._

_“What makes you say so?” Cedric’s brows drew down in displeasure at what sounded to his ears like an accusation._

_“I cannot believe otherwise. You saw how many lashes. So many they cannot even be numbered. I am certain that Front-de-Boeuf would not have continued to flog him once he lost his senses. It was not a punishment. His intention was to cause pain. There is little purpose in the torment of one who cannot feel it.”_

_The outlaw’s somber expression said that there was more, something that Cedric could not guess. “What does it mean?”_

_Locksley pursed his lips, considering Cedric. “It means, my lord, that this boy is not as he appears to be. He is made of a far more tempered steel than I had believed, to endure so much. I cannot but conclude that he has been most cruelly and regularly tortured in the past.”_

_“It was not my doing,” Cedric snapped at once._

_“Never?”_

_Cedric realized abruptly that he did not wish to answer that question. “Once would not be enough?” His uncertainty and his shame were clearly reflected in his voice._

_Locksley gazed at him searchingly for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I daresay it would not.”_

_Cedric detected accusation, though whether the outlaw had intended it or it was fed into his ear by his own stinging conscience, he could not say. It was natural that he might wonder why a boy whom Cedric had abused would offer his life to save his master. The Saxon silently wondered the same each time he looked at the injured slave, and was no nearer the answer, thinking back on what the boy had suffered under his care._

_“What of the scars on his legs?” Locksley mused aloud._

_Cedric, too, had noticed the webs of thin white lines that marred the backs of Wamba’s legs. “They are old. Older than his time with me.”_

_“Then they may be the answer. If he wakes, you may find it enlightening to inquire about them.” Cedric did not fail to note the bowman’s choice of words._

_Locksley departed soon after, inviting Cedric to join him and their mysterious guest the Black Knight later that day to see to discuss the disposition of the wealth that had been reclaimed from Torquilstone. Cedric agreed to find them in the evening, and reentered the tent where Wamba lay to resume his silent vigil. Swaddled like a child though he was, Wamba had frequent nightmares, born of the fever that ravaged his body. Gurth arrived in the evening, and offered to take up his master’s watch over the night._

_It was not until the following morning that Wamba gave any sign of awareness. A sudden small gasp, a twitch of the hand, and his eyes opened to slits. Cedric, so surprised he sat stupefied for a moment, shook himself from his torpor and knelt beside Wamba, leaning into his view. He extended a hand, thinking to alert the boy to his presence if his vision was not clear enough to make out his master’s features._

_“No.” Wamba’s voice was a hoarse, thin breath. He shuddered, looking up at Cedric in fear. “Please. Don’t.” Cedric frowned, but before he could muster a response, Wamba’s breathing quickened in panic and then, as suddenly as he had awoken, he was lost to darkness again._

_Dumbfounded, Cedric remained where he knelt beside the jester, taking in the harsh set of his young face. There had been no madness in that voice. Such dark and vulnerable tones he had never heard from the garrulous boy. And Cedric knew, in that moment, that Wamba was as sound of mind as ever he himself had been._

_It was with painful clarity that he realized Wamba had offered himself to Front-de-Boeuf’s chains with full knowledge of the fate to which he walked. What Cedric had seen as a moving gesture of devoted folly, akin to the hunting dog that throws itself before the bear so that its master might live, was in fact a much graver sacrifice. Even his survival was now a torment, for expecting release in death he had received life anew with the shame of the memories. Looking down again, Cedric saw that his hand had come unthinkingly to rest on Wamba’s head.  
_

_Late in the morning on the second day, Wamba woke again. His fever broke, and he came conscious to the world so quietly that Cedric and Gurth, sitting nearby, did not notice for some time. It was his fellow slave who first noticed the dark glimmer of Wamba’s half-open eyes. He started forward to help his friend upright._

_“Wamba! We feared you would never wake!”_

_The jester allowed Gurth to lift him upright. Though he could not hide the pained wince the shift evoked, he did not let it damp his ebullient character for long._

_“Brother Gurth. It is not quite as hot as I had expected,” he rasped._

_“What are you saying?” Gurth demanded irritably. “Has captivity turned your silly head further?”_

_“Well if this is hell, and I cannot conclude otherwise, then I would say we have been quite gravely misinformed.” He glanced at Cedric, and shook his head sadly. “Oh, but is that my good master Cedric? So the fool’s gambit has not bought victory. Deepest apologies, Uncle. Would that you could have been preserved from this most untimely fate.”_

_His voice was hoarse and his smirk lopsided, hampered by torn lips and a raw throat, but even through his evident weariness he persisted in his false persona. Cedric found himself irrepressibly angered by this charade, and snapped at Wamba._

_“Stop."_

_The boy’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “My lord?”_

_“Cease this obscene farce this moment. I know that you are no more fool than I.”_

_Cedric saw what little color had returned to Wamba’s face fade in a heartbeat. “Ah," he breathed, "but it was surely a happy fantasy while it persisted. Better that this were hell than the alternative.” This in a whisper, as Wamba turned his head away from Cedric, gazing impassively at the trees distant. Only a close tightness about his eyes gave any hint of a deeper emotion._

_“You would that this had remained concealed from me, then?” Cedric’s tone was perturbed, but held no real threat. Gurth, meanwhile, remained mute behind his longtime friend and charge. Bewildered by this new turn, he watched the exchange between Wamba and his master in rapt silence._

_“No,” Wamba whispered. “I have long wished that you should know the truth. I suppose I am glad that you have discovered me thus.”_

_Such bare honesty stalled Cedric’s declining mood, giving rise in its place to a new question. Needing time to gather his thoughts, he raised two wooden bowls that sat beside his stool and proffered them to Wamba. One held a foul smelling concoction the physician had prepared, the other was filled with clear water. “Get these in you, then rest. We will speak of this later. Now, you must regain your strength.”_

_Wamba’s attempt to raise his arm to receive the medicine bowl was painfully unsuccessful, but he obediently drained both when Gurth held them to his lips. Eased back down onto his pallet and cocooned securely in blankets once more, it was mere moments before he fell into a silent and finally healing sleep._


	58. Chapter 58

_Cedric found Wamba awake and alone when he returned to the tent that afternoon. The boy glanced up at him from his seat with uncertain eyes before averting his gaze. Cedric could not remember a time when he could read such emotion in the jester’s face, and he found the sudden vulnerability unnerving. The Saxon settled himself on his usual stool, and gestured to the servant hovering just outside, who entered and placed the two vessels he carried beside Wamba before he quickly withdrew. One held water, the other a thin broth. Wamba looked at them longingly for a moment before raising his eyes to Cedric._

_“May I?” He sounded so different, so painfully flat and so broken that his voice, hoarse with ill use, seemed to tear the Saxon’s heart._

_“They are for you,” he said simply._

_Moving so slowly that Cedric fought not to perform the task himself, Wamba lifted the bowl of broth and took a tentative sip. He consumed three more mouthfuls in this manner before a queasy look crossed his face, and he turned his attention from the food. He instead raised the water in unsteady hands. Cedric gave in to his urge to place a hand on the bottom of the wooden dish, holding it as Wamba drank steadily until it was dry. Cedric took the bowl from his hands when he had finished, and Wamba gave him a grateful glance, but did not speak._

_“Why did you do it?” he asked, foregoing any semblance of delicacy._

_Wamba's face dropped and his hands came together to form a knot in his lap. He did not, however, respond. Thinking that perhaps his question had not been clear, Cedric asked again._

_“Why did you want us to believe that you were mad?”_

_Wamba gathered himself with one deep breath. “I was afraid," he confessed. "I knew you had no clown. It seemed a fair means of securing a place in your household.”_

_“Explain this.”_

_“I feared that I would be sent away from Rotherwood. I think I would have preferred death to that.”_

_“Why would you believe…” Cedric went no further, for Wamba’s face, glowing with shame, had shown him the answer._

_Cedric, for the first time, considered what those early seasons at Rotherwood had been for Wamba. He had been barely an adolescent, taken in after he was found alone in the woods. Cedric had hardly been aware of his presence until, scant months after his arrival, Wamba found himself the target of the wrath of Cedric’s malicious neighbor Philip Malvoisin. For no proper cause than to prevent further retaliation, Cedric had ordered the boy whipped, and it had driven him mad. Or so they had been led to believe. To feign witlessness while harboring the pain, and the betrayal, seemed too much even for Cedric to imagine._

_“I do regret the decision I made.”_

_Wamba looked up slowly, palpably confused. “My lord?”_

_“You should not have been punished to appease the likes of Philip Malvoisin, and you should not have been left to such a cruel fate as you met in Torquilstone.”_

_It seemed that Wamba was struggling to frame a response, so Cedric waited through the long silence that followed. At last, the boy said slowly, “I would not hold you at fault, my lord, though it were my right. I understood why your neighbor’s demand must be satisfied. I know that there are circumstances in which the sacrifice of one can do a greater service than any number of brave deeds. I did not question your choice then. This time, I offered myself to it. It is a decision that I do not regret.”_

_Thinking back on what the physician had revealed to him, he found Wamba’s declaration that he did not regret his sacrifice heartbreaking. A part of Cedric struggled to accept the willingness to give so much, but the rest of him was caught in amazement at the sharp mind that Wamba had succeeded in concealing for so long. It was, he supposed, a necessarily intelligent person who could feign idiocy, but understanding it thus and seeing it before him were leagues apart._

_“Tell me of Torquilstone.”_

_Wamba shied, as though from the very words. “Must I?” He did not look up as he made his timid appeal._

_“I would insist upon it.” Cedric felt no pleasure in wrenching the tale from the boy, but if Wamba was indeed concealing the pain that he suspected, he must compel the slave to talk and bleed the poison from his soul. A long silence settled between them. Cedric would not break it._

_He was not certain at first that Wamba had begun to speak, but gradually the boy’s rough voice grew in volume until the words were clear. “We were called before Lord Front-de-Boeuf. He discovered me not long into the interview. Lord Athelstane negotiated a ransom and was returned to his cell. I was taken to another chamber deeper within the castle. One that smelt of blood. I fought them, until Lord Front-de-Boeuf came.”_

_“You fought?”_

_This incredulous interjection raised a faint, bitter smile on Wamba’s face. “Even a pup knows to bare its fangs when cornered, but before the lord, my limbs would not obey my will. He turned my head against the wall. When I woke, I was hung in chains. My clothes were gone, and they had a file to my collar.” His voice had fallen ever softer as he spoke, and now faded altogether. He gazed at the ground for a moment, then asked again, “Must I?”_

_Cedric reached out and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, saw him quail at the unfamiliar touch, though he gradually relaxed under his master’s hand when no punishment followed. “Speak. It will do more good than you know.”_

_It took a moment for Wamba to steel himself, and continue his account. “The man who held the file and his companion were Saracens. They spoke to me in their fierce tongue. I could not decipher the words, but one made his meaning very clear, holding a cudgel before my face. He laid it to my ankle, and my shoulder. He did not persist in this for long. I think perhaps he wanted merely to ensure that I could not fight again. He showed me the whip before he used it. How many lashes he gave me I cannot say. I lost count.”_

_“Count?”_

_“It eases the bite of the lash to keep the mind occupied, but it is a feeble defense, and cannot hold for long.” This last in a whisper. Wamba had become suddenly aware of the most familiar way in which he had spoken to his master, and reddened._

_Cedric shook his head. “Go on.”_

_“What happened after that, I do not remember as clearly. Lord Front-de-Boeuf returned after a time. His armor was bloody, and he was enraged. He took the whip from the hand of the Saracen and put it to me himself. Once his rage had been appeased, he asked me questions.” Wamba took a shaky breath, and closed his eyes. “He was unrelenting, that I should reveal to him the identity of the Black Knight.”_

_Cedric leaned in, interested. “Did you tell him?”_

_“No. I could not, for I do not know the answer. Each time it was asked and I did not respond, he gave me a cut. Here.” He raised his hand to his chest, indicating the eight bloody marks there._

_Cedric assembled this image in his mind in silence. His rage was building again, and he did not wish Wamba to detect it, lest he lose his nerve to speak._

_“I was cut down from the chain and they left me alone in the dungeon, though they bound my hands again. The lord was gone for a time, then he returned. Though the castle was lost, he said, he would ensure that I was not reclaimed. I was taken up and out, and the rest was as you saw.”_

_Cedric strained to catch the barely audible words. “And that is all?”_

_“Yes. That is all.” Wamba’s voice held so little conviction that Cedric had no doubt he was still holding something back._

_“What of your ribs? And this mark here?” He held his finger a hair’s breadth from the long slash on Wamba’s cheek._

_“They were before the rest, when he first discovered me. The cut he made with his signet. The bones met with his boot.”_

_Cedric sensed that he was growing closer to the answer he sought.  
_

_“You have not told me the worst of it.”_

_Wamba looked up at him. The dark eyes, so peculiar in his fair face, were brimming over with grief.  
_

_“Do not lie to me again. What was done to you?” Cedric realized that it was in no small part his own discomfort that made him force Wamba to say the words, rather than spelling out the truth himself._

_Wamba visibly swallowed, his eyes falling shut again. “He had me,” came the raw whisper._

_“How?” Cedric insisted. Wamba looked up at Cedric, realizing that he already knew. His gaze begged his master not to force the confession from him, but Cedric would not be moved._

_“I was taken by force, by one of Lord Front-de-Boeuf’s Saracen slaves.” As though unconscious of the gesture, Wamba had folded his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms about his knees, though the position must be stretching the lash marks on his back painfully.  
_

_Hearing his suspicions thus confirmed, Cedric felt his scattered reflections of the past days returning in force. Helplessness was not a foreign emotion to him, but he had in all prior conflicts a very clear enemy upon whom to focus his indignation. In this, his hatred for Front-de-Boeuf had mounted steadily throughout Wamba’s fractured tale, but the real adversary to be overcome was one that he could not see nor even name. The Saxon had never faced such a foe as this. Although the idea of Wamba despoiled thus repulsed him, he could not treat the boy so coldly when the violation had been suffered for his sake._

_So he asked, “Once?”_

_Choking with humiliation, Wamba shook his head. “Twice. Once what I believe was the cudgel.”_

_“Why?” Cedric’s own voice had dropped to a shocked whisper._

_The answer was immediate and devastatingly simple. “They wanted to break me.”_

_Such a sorrow gripped Cedric, hearing those words come so naturally to Wamba, that he could stand the conversation no longer. Seething, he stood and turned to leave. It was only when he several steps from the tent that he realized how his departure must appear to Wamba. It would seem that disgust had driven his retreat, and he did not want that. So he turned back briefly to say, “I will return presently.”_

_Wamba had not moved._


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_That evening, Cedric entered the clearing to find Gurth and Locksley already there, seated before Wamba’s tent with their backs to the nearby fire, talking and sharing a flagon while the boy slept. Cedric had been perplexed by Locksley’s familiarity with Gurth, his concern for Wamba, until he learned that it was his two slaves who had been responsible for informing the woodsmen of the misfortune that had befallen their master and his company. It was the jester and the swineherd who had begged the aid of the outlaws and plotted a rescue. Cedric slowed his steps, listening to their quiet conversation as he drew near._

_“Thanks, friend. It has been some time since I tasted of this comfort,” Gurth said, lifting his cup so Locksley could fill it again._

_The outlaw gave a low laugh. “It is a well deserved cheer, if an insubstantial one.”_

_“This is quite more substantial than a common thrall is accustomed,” Gurth countered, taking a swallow._

_Locksley, refilling his own cup, glanced into the shadowy tent where Wamba’s still face was illuminated by the glow of the fire. “I heard word that he woke today.”_

_Gurth nodded. “He did. It would seem it is we who have been the fools these years. Lord Cedric has found out his madness for a farce.”_

_“Truly?” Locksley sounded impressed._

_“Yes. I never noticed a thing amiss.” Gurth said grimly. Cedric wondered if the swineherd’s thoughts traveled the same guilty paths that Cedric’s persisted in treading. It was Gurth, after all, who found Wamba in the woods, who brought him to Rotherwood, who spent every day in his company._

_“You were not the only one whose eyes were blinded to the truth,” Cedric said. Both Gurth and Locksley turned, noticing the Saxon for the first time. Gurth retrieved the carved stool from the tent for him, and all three settled by the fire, though Cedric declined the drink Locksley offered._

_“You spoke with him?” Locksley asked, sitting back with his own cup._

_“Only briefly,” Cedric said. He related to them most of what Wamba had revealed to him, excluding only the very last._

_They were contemplating this in grave silence when there was a sudden movement from within the tent, and all eyes turned toward it. Wamba had shifted onto his stomach. The slight back rose and fell slowly in one careful, deep breath, then stilled._

_Gurth extended one hand in the boy's direction, though he was not nearly close enough to touch, and called softly, “Wamba?”_

_“That’s not my name.” It was barely a whisper, but Cedric heard it and frowned._

_Gurth shook his head. “What are you saying now? Come, join us by the fire.” The swineherd stood and went to the tent to help his young friend to his feet, supporting the slight weight but not forcing upon him the indignity of being carried. With his help, Wamba managed to shuffle slowly into the open, favoring his injured ankle. He settled on the grass near the fire, attempting to use his sprained wrist to support him and failing with a wince. It was only once he was seated that Wamba said again, “That’s not my name.”_

_“What do you mean by that?” Cedric's voice was sharp, and Wamba flinched._

_“My name is not Wamba.”_

_“Who is Wamba?”_

_“What is your name?”_

_The questions came at once, one from Locksley, the other Cedric._

_Wamba was silent, studying the pattern of the layered bandages on his wrist. Finally, Locksley reached over and lifted his chin, repeating not his own question, but Cedric’s. “What is your name?”_

_Wamba lowered his head again, and the outlaw moved his hand to allow it, having perhaps more than one insight into the character of the young slave._

_“It is my master's,” came the uncertain whisper at last._

_“What did you say?” Cedric growled._

_The boy shied from his voice, his hands curling like animals protecting vulnerable underbellies. “The name I was given as a child is Cedric, master.”_

_There was a long, stunned silence while they took in this new revelation. It was Gurth who broke it. “Why did you tell me your name was Wamba?” he demanded gruffly._

_Another shudder passed through the boy, and his voice shook in a staccato of slipping control. “I was beaten once, for my name.”_

_Cedric thought absently that he clearly expected the same now. There was something about this boy that continued to elude him, despite the earlier confessions. Something lurked deeper, tied in with what Locksley had observed in the marks on his back. Cedric had an inkling that this new and unprompted confession was a sign that Wamba was prepared to reveal the roots of that darkness, if his master so desired. He had taken to heart the command to persist in his dishonesty no longer._

_“Who would allow such an absurdity?” Gurth asked indignantly._

_Wamba looked up at Cedric across the fire. Cedric nodded, gratified. Clearly, Wamba had decided it was his master’s curiosity, and no other, that would be satisfied._

_The jester’s voice was soft and hoarse when he spoke, still worn from torture, and his earlier talk with Cedric. “I was with a group of traveling players before Rotherwood. We performed once in the castle of a lord who was most pleasantly humored. He asked our names, and the man who was my master announced us one by one. One of the family of this lord had a name similar to mine. He was enraged that a commoner should share his noble name. He communicated his displeasure with his fist.”_

_Locksley's eyes had narrowed to concentrated slits, staring hard at the boy before him as though he were a complex riddle to be solved. So Cedric asked in his stead, “Who is Wamba?”_

_“He was my friend,” the boy whispered. “He died in the attack.”_

_Locksley’s gaze was still trained on the jester. “You do not plan to tell them the rest?”_

_Wamba looked up, focusing questioning eyes on his rescuer._

_“You know what happened that night, how badly that noble beat you, and what happened afterwards.”_

_Cedric frowned at Locksley, but the woodsman’s gaze never left Wamba. The boy’s own eyes were wide and apprehensive. “My lord?”_

_“You know of what I speak. What was done in the camp.” Locksley's voice was harsh, just shy of threatening, and the fright his words caused was written clear in Wamba’s lowered eyes and hunched shoulders._

_“How can you know?” It was a rough whisper._

_“Do you know my name?” The outlaw’s voice gentled._

_Wamba nodded. “It is Locksley.”_

_“That is the name I am known by, yes. My family is Fitzwarin.”_

_Cedric did not understand the significance of the name, but its effect on Wamba was immediate and dramatic. He blanched, and then Cedric could no longer see his slave's face, for it was shadowed by a curtain of pale hair._

_Gurth spoke, with the limited tact that was his wont. “What does that have to do with Wamba?”_

_Locksley did not shift his gaze from the jester. “It was my father and my cousin of whom he spoke. I was also present that night, and I have remembered why the tale was so familiar to me.”_

_Cedric raised a surprised brow. “You remember this incident?”_

_“Yes,” Locksley said. “It was many years ago that a company of players came to my father's castle. The boy that was with them appeared to be five or six years of age.”_

_“Eight.” The soft interjection did not go unheard._

_“Truly?” Locksley tilted his head. “I suppose with such a life you would have been small. It is true that my father asked their names. My cousin, whose name was Cerdic, actually, not Cedric, was notorious for his self importance and his short temper. He took insult to what he perceived as a slight to his noble blood. He had leapt from his seat before I could restrain him. He attacked the boy, and dealt him several blows before I reached them. The child made not a sound.”_

_“Surely your father did not allow this to pass,” Cedric said._

_“He refused when my cousin demanded the boy be punished, perhaps killed. I returned my cousin to his chair, but not before I heard the troupe’s leader assure him that the boy would be dealt with.”_

_Wamba surreptitiously drew his knees to his chest and rested his forehead against them, silent._

_“I did not believe any man would keep such a promise,” Locksley continued, “but I admit I was intrigued by the whole affair. I snuck into the bailey that night, to their small encampment by the wall.”_

_Wamba looked up at that. “You followed?” he rasped in hollow tones._

_“Yes,” Locksley nodded, “and I saw.”_

_Cedric stared at Wamba, but addressed his question to the woodsman. “What did you see?”_

_Locksley took a moment to choose his words. “When I arrived, most of them were settling in around the fire. The leader, whose name, I believe, was Galen, was nowhere to be found.”_

_A small choked sound escaped Wamba, and he shuddered hard at the name._

_“I found him at last at one of the carts that they had brought into the yard. He was dragging the boy with him. The rest of the troupe, if they noted this, merely ignored it. They continued their revels undisturbed, even as Galen flung the boy down onto a cart.”_

_Wamba shuddered again, betraying much in his posture though his face was hidden against his knees._

_“Do you want me to stop?”_

_Wamba glanced up, a dark, haunted look in his eyes. He swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was choked. “No. Please tell them. If my master wishes.”_

_“I do.” Cedric said firmly._

_Locksley nodded. “Very well, Galen bound the boy to the cart by his wrists. I had surmised his intentions, but I did not see the need for the binding. Galen was of more than sufficient size to overpower any struggles. He pulled the boy’s trews from him, baring his skin that was dark with bruises. Then he took a strap from the wagon, and with it he beat the boy. The strength of the blows amazed me, and also the way the boy held his silence. It was several minutes before he made a sound, and when at last he broke he did not weep, but screamed.”_

_“Saints,” Gurth breathed, staring at Locksley with horror reflected in his eyes._

_The woodsman nodded. “From that day to this, I have lamented the fact that I did not intercede. I had convinced myself that if such punishment was being dealt, it must be deserved, that there had been some infraction of which I was not aware. It was not long before the boy’s voice went hoarse, though Galen kept on for long minutes more. When at last he had whipped the still child to his satisfaction, he loosed the ropes binding his hands.”_

_Wamba released a soft sigh, his shoulders drooping as though remembering the feeling._

_Locksley looked at Wamba’s bowed head. “Galen left, and the boy lay down to sleep, there beneath the cart, far from the fire and without even a rag to keep him against the night. It is not a scene that one easily forgets. I imagine that this was common?”_

_Addressed thus, Wamba raised his head, the same haunted look still clear across his features. “Yes.”_

_Locksley turned to Cedric. “Then there is your answer.”_

_Cedric acknowledged this with a nod, his eyes never leaving Wamba’s face. “What of your parents? I always believed they had been killed with the rest.”_

_Wamba gathered himself to respond, forcing his body to uncurl and his back to straighten with obvious effort. “I remember my mother a little,” he said. “She went away when I was very young, but I have memories of her. She was very beautiful, I think, for he hated me because of her. I do not know who my father was. I do not think it was him, because I do not believe any father can be so cruel.”_

_Cedric realized that this Galen had haunted Wamba to such an extent that even now, so many years free of his control, he could not bring himself to say the man’s name. The sound of it from Locksley’s lips had unleashed a shivering fear. Galen had cast his shadow long upon the boy. The Saxon had never suspected that such a cruel history dwelt behind the jester’s levity. He had never really imagined what Wamba’s life had been before Rotherwood. Now that the curtain across those long-held secrets had been drawn back, however, they began to pour forth like sand from a broken glass._

_“Why did your mother leave?”_

_“I can say neither why nor where.”_

_“It was her will that you should remain in the charge of that tyrant?” Locksley was clearly doubtful._

_Wamba bit his lip. “Yes. I believe I was the price of her freedom, and there was no other willing to speak for me."_

_"She cannot have known the fate the awaited you in his care."_

_Wamba shrugged. "It is nothing so uncommon to chastise a wayward boy, and I was in particular need of correction. Or so he told me many times.”_

_“Did you believe those words?” asked Locksley._

_“Yes. Perhaps.” The jester let his legs fall to the grass, clasping his hands in his lap. “Wamba was a kind voice in my ear, but his was the only gentle hand I knew, and he was a slave as well. He could not outweigh all the rest.”_

_“Did you never think to run away?” Gurth offered the idea as though it could still be of use to Wamba._

_It was met with a short, humorless laugh. “I ran. Twice I ran. He pursued me each time. The first was in the summer of my sixth year. He caught me when I reached a river and could go no further. He broke my legs and beat them with his strap.” Wamba’s thin fingers worried at the fraying linen that bound his ankle. “It was more than a year before I gathered the nerve to try again. He was not so lenient the second time.”_

_Though the men around him waited for an elaboration, Wamba was still but for the tremble in his restless fingers, hoping, perhaps, not to be asked. Finally, Gurth said, “What did he do?”_

_Wamba’s voice was soft and hollow. “He bound me to the trunk of an oak tree and whipped me. I remained there until sunset of the following day, while he and his favored used me as they pleased. It was the last day that I wept.” Wamba shook with some barely contained emotion, as though he might shatter to pieces at the merest touch. Cedric had to close his eyes against the suddenly stinging light of the fire._

_“The man was the devil himself,” Locksley spat in disbelief._

_The statement rang in the air for a moment. Then Gurth, unable to bear the tension any longer, said bemused, “I have never heard of such punishment.”_

_A tremor went through the young jester, and the fragile wall that guarded his emotions cracked. He laughed bitterly. “Punishment? No. Punishment is deserved. He pulled his reasons from the empty air. I was too slow, too insolent, too weak. Once I took bread when he had given me nothing to eat for days. Once, and was beaten for it again and again, so many times it would have been better that I had taken the food, for at least I could have eased the ache of hunger.”_

_Cedric was washed over by a sadness so profound that it fixed him to the spot. The Saxon had no doubt that Wamba had spoken the truth. He had nothing to gain by lying any longer, but what advantage he hoped would come from revealing this cruel past, Cedric had yet to determine. The boy’s choice to speak now may be simply another wave in the tide that Cedric had set in motion when he pulled Wamba’s confessions from him. It may be that he thought his recent service might stay Cedric’s condemnation of his sordid use. Regardless of his reason, Wamba had spoken, and now he awaited judgment, anxiously mute._

_Locksley was the first to move, standing and laying a hand on Wamba’s bowed head. “I know these words did not come easy, but I pray that freeing them will bring you some peace.”_

_There was no revulsion in his tone. His compassion seemed to free all of them from their frozen stupor. Gurth, too, offered his friend a gentle reassurance. Cedric looked from one to the other, jerking his head toward the main encampment in silent command. There were words that Wamba needed to hear from him, but he would not speak them where others could listen. With one sorrowful backward glance, Gurth did as he was ordered and left, fading into the shadows on Locksley’s heels. Cedric, looking after him, knew that the steadfast man would not turn from Wamba because of what had been revealed, nor would his care for the boy be in any measure diminished over the events of his past._

_Cedric himself was uncertain what his relationship with Wamba would be, what role he would choose in this new and unexpected chapter. He knew that a forcible return to their previous easy interaction was not an impossibility. If he demanded it, Wamba would oblige and never speak of his hurts again. Cedric knew also that he would never be satisfied with such a mockery. He watched Wamba's still profile as the boy studied the jumping fire. Perhaps he was staring through it, reliving the moments he had described and his shame at recounting them. Perhaps his thoughts were turned to Torquilstone, and his time at the mercy of its torments._

_Wherever his gaze had reached, the young jester had become removed in the space of a moment; the flame of his heated declaration guttered out. Cedric wondered if perhaps he had not intended to reveal all he had, if many of those words had never been meant to pass torn lips. It mattered little. Cedric had already resolved within himself to do everything in his power to speed his slave’s recovery. His world had been turned over in a few short days by one extraordinary sacrifice and a mass of new knowledge. The patchwork of the scarred face was just one more element in the scene painted by words and images, and Cedric was filled with an immediate need to reassure Wamba. He had no power to change the past, but as Wamba's master he might just hold sway over the memories._

_“It was not your fault.”_

_A powerful shudder ran through Wamba’s body. Cedric watched him closely for a moment, then followed his instinct and left his stool to take a seat on the grassy turf beside the boy. He reached out ever so slowly, and laid a hand on his young slave's shoulder. When Wamba did not flinch, did not move, Cedric called to him. The face that turned to him shone with silent tears. Cedric’s breath stuttered. If he understood what Wamba had said, these tears were the first to wet his cheeks in nearly a decade. Staggered that those few simple words could evoke what so many torturers had sought and failed, Cedric went one step further and gathered Wamba into his arms, positioning the youth carefully so that broken, bruised skin was arranged to the least discomfort. Wamba stiffened, hesitant to accept this unexpected solace, but did not fight him._

_Cedric tightened his embrace a fraction, murmuring quietly in Wamba's ear, “You cannot hold yourself responsible. You were a child, with no means to defend yourself. It was not your fault.” With these words, he accepted all he had been told, accepted the damaged boy in his arms. He had only one more absolution to offer. “I see now why you deceived me. You are forgiven.”_

_Instantly, Wamba's silent shuddering unfolded into an expression that was raw and violent and infinitely more powerful. Heart-wracking sobs broke heavy from his chest. The boy leaned into his master, pressing his injured shoulder to Cedric's dark tunic, desperately needing the comfort, but not daring to ask for more. Wamba wept, and Cedric held him anchored as he released his sorrow._

_The Saxon watched the guttering fire until Wamba quieted. When he looked down, long minutes later, he found that the slave had succumbed to his exhaustion, and lay sleeping with his face turned against Cedric’s chest. Unexpectedly, his heart gave that odd twinge that had affected him with increasing frequency over the past days. Cedric stroked Wamba’s arm gently before he stood and carried the boy back into the tent. He settled Wamba in the blankets, tucking them securely around the thin form to keep him from the chill. He allowed himself to sweep Wamba’s hair back from his face, a single gentle caress, before he drew the tent flaps closed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of physical and sexual abuse of a child.


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the only instance where I have cribbed dialogue directly from the book, specifically for the exchange on freedom. Original text can be found [here](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ivanhoe/Chapter_32).

_The hoard that the outlaws had contrived to amass from the smoldering ruins of Torquilstone was most impressive, a sparkling hill rising from the center of the makeshift feasting tables encircling the leafy copse where Cedric sat, enjoying a meal in the company of the Black Knight. The big man still refused to doff his helm and reveal the whole of his countenance in company, and Cedric was content not to question him further for the time being. They watched the woodsmen divide the spoils among them, carrying off silver plates and jewel-encrusted goblets, rich chains of gold and casks of potent wine one by one to their mounts and carts. Cedric had already refused his share, leaving it to Locksley and his company in payment of the service they had done him._

_“For yourself, sir knight, will you claim nothing more?” Cedric asked, waving his mug at the steadily dwindling treasure._

_The knight shook his covered head. “No, Lord Saxon, I have had my claim of the spoils in the form of my prisoner De Bracy, plus that portion of the silver which he stole as he made his exit. Truly an ungrateful fellow.”_

_“I can profess no surprise at this result,” Cedric snorted. “These Normans are a cowardly lot, ever ready to make off with that which rightfully belongs to others. If nothing else, I trust this incident has shown you the extent of their perfidy.”_

_“Truly, your company has taught me the value of Saxon virtue, more powerfully than I ever anticipated. It is a lesson I will carry with me on my travels.”_

_“You will be leaving us presently?” Cedric asked._

_“Indeed. I have commitments I must honor, and you have your own appointment to keep, I believe.”_

_“Yes,” Cedric nodded. “The funeral feast for noble Athelstane will convene only days hence. I must collect Rowena from Rotherwood and make haste to Coningsburgh.”_

_“Would it not have been faster for the whole train to depart directly?” the Black Knight wondered._

_“Yes, but I could not in good conscience compel my ward to travel yet further from home after such a trying misadventure when familiar comforts were so close at hand, and my business here not yet concluded.”_

_“Now that matters are resolved to your satisfaction, I trust you can leave with a peaceful heart.” The knight turned, piercing blue eyes meeting Cedric’s through the slit of his visor. “How is your young knave? I had thought to pay him a visit myself and commend him once again on his bravery, but I found myself rather too preoccupied with the endless toasts of the woodsmen.”_

_“Well, my lord,” interjected a rasping chuckle, “allow me then to present the mountain to Mohammed.”_

_Cedric looked sharply at the familiar voice to see Wamba hovering at the edge of the trees. He stood straight and looked steady enough, though Gurth lurked just behind, a hand extended in preparation to catch the boy if it became necessary. Bandages peeked from the arms and neck of his loose linen tunic. Wamba turned to Cedric at once, offering him a stiff bow and a tentative smile. The tempestuous emotions of the previous night had cleared like storm clouds, leaving behind a raw sort of peace that Cedric was glad to see. It was only a step toward seeing Wamba restored to himself, but it was a heartening one._

_“Wamba!” the Black Knight said with clear delight. “Back on your feet and in good spirits, I see, despite the stretching they gave you.”_

_Wamba raised his brows and shot the knight a lopsided smile. “Good sir knight, it may be our noble adversaries were kinder than I imagined. It seems to me the stretching was to my benefit after all, for I would swear I can look more directly in your eyes now than I did prior.”_

_The Black Knight laughed. “If that is all it accomplished, then I am glad. I must say you look better standing on solid ground than dangling like a misshapen lantern from the walls.”_

_“I fancied myself rather a tavern sign, my lord, marking the wine stores which our friends have so ably liberated thanks to my aid,” Wamba smirked, taking to his character with ease, though his quips were mellowed by the low ebb of his emotions._

_“I have enjoyed of that bounty these last nights, so my thanks on that as well as your successful liberation of our noble general,” he said with a nod to Cedric._

_“I daresay you will not taste of that fine vintage again if your sluggard tendencies have gotten the better of you after the battle,” Wamba noted, as a woodman hefted a cask and carried it off, “for it I see it disappears before our very eyes.”_

_The knight waved a diffident hand, not rising from his seat and consenting to Wamba’s charge of sloth with good grace. “For my say, they are most welcome to it. A more richly deserved reward was never received than that bestowed upon the brave men of this company.”_

_Distracted though he was hearing Wamba jest so casually about his narrowly avoided execution, the knight’s words struck false to Cedric. Abruptly, he was reminded that there was at least one more reward that had already waited too long._

_“I think I must disagree, sir knight,” he said sternly, beckoning Wamba forward with a curt gesture. The boy followed the unspoken command, moving to stand before his master with uncertain eyes. It pained Cedric that Wamba should still doubt his intentions even after the understanding they had come to. So Cedric reached out and pulled the boy into his arms, ignoring his slight flinch and stroking the bright head soothingly. “What of you, Wamba? What reward would you have for the service you have done me in offering yourself to chains and death in my stead?”_

_Wamba pushed back from the embrace to look up into Cedric’s face. “For myself, nothing. My life is only your due as my master,” he said earnestly, “but, Uncle, if you would grant me one wish, I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole a week from your service to bestow it on your son."_

_"Pardon him!" exclaimed Cedric. "I will both pardon and reward him. Come here, Gurth, and kneel down.”_

_The swineherd did as commanded, dropping to the earth at his master’s feet with a hope and disbelief warring in his expression. He looked at Wamba, and received a smile and an encouraging nod._

_“You will have need of this, Lord Saxon,” the Black Knight said, offering Cedric the hilt of his sword._

_Cedric took it, and laid the flat of it on Gurth’s thick shoulder, the sharp edge just brushing the skin of his neck below his iron collar. “I release you from your service, Gurth, and by my authority make of you a freeman. Let none refute it. I give you also a parcel of land in my stead, to be your own and that of your children and theirs.”_

_As soon as the words were spoken, Gurth sprang to his feet with a joyful shout. “My lord, I am a man changed! The strength of my arm is doubled by your gift, and all of it will be yours, whenever you have need of me.”_

_Cedric nodded graciously, watching as Gurth’s half lame mongrel of a herding dog caught his excitement, bounding about at the newly liberated man’s feet._

_Laughing, Gurth dropped to scrub his hands through the creature’s tangled ruff. “Fangs! Though I am transformed, do you recognize me still?”_

_“Oh, yes,” Wamba chuckled softly from his place beside Cedric. “Fangs and I still know you, Gurth, though we abide both by the collar still. It seems more likely you will forget us as you rise to loftier things.”_

_This won a laugh from Gurth. “I would forget myself before I forgot you, Wamba," he said. "Truly, I never had better fortune than to stumble upon you in the forest.”_

_Cedric glanced at the boy, who observed his friend’s jubilation with answering joy, muted though it was by fatigue. Contrary to his words, however, Wamba now wore no collar but that of frayed linen that bound his injuries. It seemed a crime to Cedric to enclose that neck in cold metal again, to reduce Wamba once more to the rank of dog when he had proven himself worthy of so much more. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, drawing his attention. “For yourself, Wamba, you do not ask freedom? But speak, and it shall be yours.”_

_Wamba smiled up at him, a touch sadly. “Your offer is most generous, master, but I think I prefer not to accept, unless you are eager to be quit of me, in which instance I pray you take that most diligently kept blade that our friend has lent and strike me through with it here and now.”_

_“Is freedom so distasteful to you, Wamba?” Gurth asked._

_"It seems that man’s natural state is to desire freedom, so you must wonder if perhaps I am touched by madness after all, but I do see clearly my own truth," said Wamba. "Never think I envy you, Brother Gurth, for my skills lend themselves poorly to fields and battle frays and more to keeping warm by the hall fire."_

_“Strange words, for one who acquitted himself so courageously in our recent conflict,” noted the Black Knight, taking his blade furtively from Cedric’s hand as though worried the Saxon might just do as Wamba asked._

_“That is as it may be,” Cedric said. “If freedom does not suit you, Wamba, you may have another boon of your choosing.” The boy opened his mouth, no doubt to protest that Gurth’s liberation was his chosen prize, so Cedric hushed him with a raised finger. “Something for yourself. You may think on it, and tell me when you are decided.”_

_“Well spoken, Lord Saxon,” said the Black Knight with a chuckle._

_“What of you, noble knight?” Cedric asked. “It was your skill on the field that won us the day, as well as the bravery of Locksley’s woodsmen. Is there nothing you would ask of me in payment for your perils?”_

_“Truly, your generosity is the mark of true nobility, Lord Cedric,” said the knight, “and there is indeed a boon I would ask of you when next we meet, perhaps one that will put even your generosity to the test.”_

_“Whatever you ask, I will gladly grant,” Cedric said at once, extending his hand to the Black Knight._

_The mysterious man chuckled as he clasped the offered hand. “I think you may yet regret such hasty promises, good Saxon.”_

_“When the time comes, we shall see which of us had the right of it,” said Cedric, “but, sir knight, will you not attend the feast with us to honor noble Athelstane who was your companion in battle, though for but a brief time? I know you spoke of other engagements, but you are welcome to join our company on the road to Coningsburgh.”_

_“Alas, good Lord Cedric, I have other business to attend to before I can join the mourning feast. I will make my way to Coningsburgh by a more circuitous route.”_

_“Then we will await your coming there,” said Cedric. “If there is any other aid we may offer you on your journey, please take it before you go.”_

_The Black Knight regarded him searchingly for a moment from within the shadowed depths of his helm. “If you mean these words, Lord Saxon, I would pray of you the loan of your slave, for I have need of a guide in these woods and he has proven himself an able navigator as well as an entertaining companion.”_

_“You mean Wamba, sir knight?” Cedric asked, startled._

_The knight nodded. “Unless you are hiding his brother somewhere about, then that is indeed the knave of whom I speak.”_

_Cedric frowned, his heart protesting the possibility of separation from Wamba when he was so recently reclaimed. “He is only just recovered enough to stand here before us,” he said. “I would not endanger your quest by providing you a guide who might slow your journey.”_

_“If I may speak, Uncle,” interjected Wamba, “I can avow, with the physician’s blessing, that I am sound enough in body to sit atop a horse, and it makes little matter if that beast be bound for Rotherwood or further afield. If a guide is what is needed, I can serve as ably as any man.”_

_Cedric looked down at Wamba, at his reassuring smile, but Cedric was loath to be parted from him, particularly to tender him to the service of a man who was still, in most aspects, a stranger, but Cedric could not be so two-faced as to offer help and then refuse it when asked. The Black Knight had trapped him in a cage of his own courtesy._

_“Very well,” he nodded. “I shall expect you both at Coningsburgh.” It was a warning as much as an invitation._

_“Thank you,” the knight said warmly. “You have my word of honor that the lad will be returned to you in good working order.”_

_Thus it was that Cedric set out for Rotherwood with a much smaller party than he had planned, Gurth disappeared off to some important errand, as he was now at liberty to do, and Wamba departed with the Black Knight. The road to the Saxon’s domain was not long, and he soon found himself back among familiar surroundings, making preparations to depart again at once the following morning. The journey to Coningsburgh took two days, at which point his worry for Wamba faded somewhat to the back of Cedric’s mind as he was called upon to soothe the anger and grief of the Lady Edith, after relaying to her the news that her son had perished._

_He did not see Wamba again until the boy rode into Coningsburgh three days later at the side of the Black Knight and a stranger swathed in a heavy cloak. Their arrival Cedric observed from the window, though Wamba did not accompany the two noble strangers into the hall. When the Black Knight’s helm was at last drawn off, and the man declared to be the king himself, returned after his long captivity, Cedric believed nothing could shock him more. He was proven wrong almost at once, as the cloaked stranger at King Richard’s side was revealed to be no stranger at all, but Cedric’s own son Wilfred, still recovering from the wounds sustained during the tournament where he had first appeared to his father after their long estrangement._

_For the second time, Cedric cursed his hasty promise to the Black Knight to grant any boon he might ask, though his honor would not permit him to break his word. He found himself in short order bending knee to the Norman and accepting his son back into his house as his heir. In truth, though the method of their reconciliation had been somewhat underhanded, he found he did not mind it overmuch. His pride stung faintly, but his respect for the Black Knight, who had fought at the side of the Saxon rebels against their Norman enemies, was firm in his heart. It gave him hope that things might not be as bad as he originally feared under this king._

_And the man at least had the decency to be apologetic about the subterfuge. “Though you must admit, Lord Saxon,” he said “that you would have been most unlikely to entertain my company if you had known my true identity.”_

_“I cannot deny the accuracy of your assessment,” Cedric said._

_“So perhaps my secretive approach was for the best, though it was not entirely, nor even mostly, for your benefit. I know you are well aware of my brother’s plots and ambitions, as well as those of his agents. You have been victim of them yourself, and must see why I had need to thwart them before I dared reveal myself.”_

_Cedric was somewhat appeased by the explanation. “I suppose it is a comfort to know that you treat your duty to the wellbeing of all your people with more gravity than your brother has so far demonstrated.”_

_“The difference between us is that I know that all of England’s people must be part of her rebuilding, or we will never create of her the great country I envision. No monarch succeeds without the trust and aid of his people,” the king said. “Speaking of which, I must thank you again for the loan of your slave. Not only did he prove himself once again a most diverting companion, but he was quite handy with a sword when we were ambushed.”_

_“You were attacked?” Cedric asked, alarmed._

_“Yes, by a band of just such Normans as you have good cause to despise. Wamba cut Albert Malvoisin’s horse out from under him. I feel his protestations of a lack of skill on the field may have been hasty. He is quite an adept young man.”_

_Cedric’s concern was less for Wamba’s prowess and more for his still healing person. “He was not injured?”_

_The king laughed. “No, Lord Saxon. I have returned him safe and whole, as promised.”_

_He was able to confirm this for himself when he came across Wamba the next morning, keeping company with none other than the Lady Edith herself. He frowned at this odd pairing. To his knowledge, the two had never previously met, but could not deny the so recently bereaved mother when she told him she wished to have a correspondence with his slave._

_“We have had a most interesting conversation, and I wish to continue it,” she said simply when questioned. “I will provide the messenger, and writing tools for his use, so this should be of little trouble to you.”_

_Cedric stared hard at Wamba, trying to divine something of the nature of this conversation from his demeanor, but he saw only weariness that spoke of a sleepless night in the boy’s face where he stood behind the lady._

_“You have not been slandered, Lord Cedric,” she said sharply. “Your jester is skilled in his vocation, and an exchange of letters will provide me with much needed distraction from my mourning.”_

_So Cedric gave his assent, and saw Wamba presented with a small leather satchel by a servant as they mounted their horses the following day. Perhaps it was jealousy that prompted him to call Wamba to his side and keep the boy there as they rode, asking him of his time with the king and listening to his spirited recounting of their brief adventure. He discovered to his delight that Wamba was just as amusing without his brash mask of madness, the sharp observations relayed with soft-spoken humor rather than spiteful mocking. Cedric found also that this new mood suited his own change of heart, the peace that came with letting go of his past resentments and accepting that the world would not mold itself to his wishes, but that letting fate take its course would not end in fire and ruin._

_It was pleasant, and peaceful, and he smiled at the boy beside him as he asked teasingly, “It seems that you have made quite a positive impression on the king. Should I worry that you might be tempted to his service?”_

_Wamba laughed softly, the roughness still not completely faded from his voice. “If you require yet more proof of my allegiance, my lord, I am not sure what I can do save brand myself with your mark like one of your fine swine.”_

_Cedric scoffed. “You have been brushing shoulders with royalty these past days, and beguiling noble widows besides. Perhaps your ambitions have gotten the better of you. Perhaps you have decided that a comfortable bed in London suits you better than the drafty halls of Rotherwood.”_

_This won a true laugh from Wamba, and a sweet smile that warmed Cedric. “For ambitions, Uncle, truly I have very few. If I might have leave to pass all my days at your hearth, I will be content. Rotherwood’s halls have never failed to satisfy me.”_

_Cedric’s heart gave a twinge at that, the same nagging sentiment that had tormented him since Torquilstone. He turned a serious gaze on Wamba. “You truly want nothing for yourself? I have offered you a boon and I will not place a limit on when you may claim it.”_

_Wamba stared up at the trees as if in thought. “Perhaps, if pressed, I might confess a wish never to see another hangman's noose in any proximity to my person,” he offered at last with a wry smile._

_“That is easily granted,” Cedric said quietly. “It should not need to be said that I will never take your life, but that is not the only promise I would make.”_

_“My lord?” Wamba asked uncertainly._

_“I will never send you away. I will never again put a collar on you or compel you to that jester’s chair to perform for scraps. I will never again order you under the whip, for any cause. These promises I make you.”_

_Wamba’s eyes were decidedly wet as he said, “My lord, I would not ask any of these things of you.”_

_“I know you would not ask,” Cedric said. “That is why I say them instead. You may decide what boon you would ask of me. In the meantime, know that you are safe in my household, and will be cared for._

_The tears gathering on Wamba’s eyelashes trembled, threatening to spill over, and he kept his gaze fixed on his horse’s wiry mane where it was clenched in his white knuckled hands._

_“This is something you have earned for yourself. Your actions have won you a place with me that cannot be revoked. You deserve it, and doubting that is the only thing I will not forgive you,” he warned._

_Wamba laughed brokenly, his tears breaking free at last to wet his cheeks. He cuffed them away with his sleeve. “Yes, my lord.”_

_Cedric let Wamba distract him after that with another humorous tale until they found their way to the abbey where they would pass the night, but he knew his words had been heard. The shy smiles that Wamba bestowed each time their eyes met were more than proof enough._

_After all of this, it was a shock to wake the following morning to discover that Wamba had disappeared._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a side note, Wamba and the king's interactions on the road are pretty hilarious, and you can read them [here](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Ivanhoe/Chapter_40) in the original text if you want.


	61. Chapter 61

_“Perhaps we should consider the possibility that he has run, my lord.”_

_Cedric rounded on Oswald, fixing his butler with a glower so dire the young man actually fell back a pace, hands raised in a gesture of apology._

_“I will not hear such talk,” Cedric growled. “I did not believe it this morning and I do not believe it now. There must be some sign of what happened to him. Continue your search, and trouble yourself no more to question me.”_

_They had discovered Wamba missing when he failed to appear for matins at dawn. At first, thinking him to be lazing in bed, Cedric had ordered Oswald to fetch him, only to be told that Wamba’s borrowed pallet in the lay brothers’ dormitory was undisturbed and the boy nowhere to be found. Cedric had immediately requested a search of the abbey, which had so far yielded no trace. Brown robed brothers and Cedric’s liveried guards swarmed the abbey like ants throughout the morning, to no avail. Wamba had vanished._

_Rowena, who had sheltered within the cloister, emerged at midday to bid them pause for noon prayers and refreshment, and Cedric grudgingly admitted to himself that if they had found nothing so far they were unlikely to uncover any clue through further searching. Unhappily, he consented to allow the horses saddled and preparation made to depart, thinking to search for signs on the road._

_“Riders approaching!” The call went up from one of the guards near the edge of the abbey yard, and the rest were immediately on the alert, arming themselves against a potential new threat. Cedric turned just in time to see a score or more of horsemen materialize from the trees. The emblems on their cloaks were varied and most unknown to him, but he recognized the lead rider at once. The armored knight jerked his horse to an abrupt stop before Cedric, causing the beast to toss his head fitfully._

_“Father!” Wilfred cried, leaping from his saddle and dragging off his helm. “Your party is safe?”_

_Cedric frowned. “Why should we be otherwise?”_

_“We caught sight of Philip Malvoisin’s men in the wood not far from here,” Wilfred said, brushing his sweat damp hair back from his face. “They were breaking camp. I feared they might have threatened your journey.”_

_“That villain,” Cedric spat, “surely has some evil purpose in dispatching his men in this part of the wood, but we have seen no sign of him as of yet.”_

_“That is a relief. He has mighty cause to resent you, and we suspect he seeks revenge for his brother’s fate.”_

_“What has happened since we parted?” Cedric asked with a frown._

_“Of course, you did not know,” Wilfred said, shaking his head. “The king has had Albert arrested for treason. He’s to be executed in London.”_

_“What!” Cedric exclaimed. “He executes his kindred for their ambition?”_

_Wilfred’s brows drew down in a glower that neither man would be pleased to admit gave him a startling resemblance to his father. “King Richard is no fool. They are no kindred to him, who left him to rot in a foreign prison while they tied their hopes to his brother’s ascension. The king rewards loyalty and virtue, and his actions will prove it.”_

_“Yes, yes,” Cedric waved impatiently, “I remember well this sermon. There is no need for further repetitions.”_

_“But I must ask,” Wilfred said, “if you were not aware of Malvoisin’s presence so close to your lodging, for what reason do you tarry here so late? Your party is still in disarray.”_

_“We have been occupied the morning searching,” Cedric informed him. “Wamba has gone missing.” Saying the words aloud pushed his simmering worry to a boil once again._

_“Missing?” Wilfred frowned. “I did not think him the sort to run.”_

_“He did not run,” Cedric snapped furiously, making Wilfred blink in surprise. The Saxon reined in his anger and ground out, “If he wanted freedom, he had to say but a single word and it would have been his, with wealth to go along besides. There is no profit to him in running now, and I refuse to believe he has done so.”_

_Wilfred stared at Cedric for a long moment, as though he might have mistaken another man for his father. Cedric blew out an impatient sigh. He had no time for explanations. He turned to find his horse, but Wilfred laid a gauntleted hand on his arm, stopping him._

_“I fear I may see what Malvoisin was hunting in these woods,” Wilfred asked. “Is it possible Wamba was his quarry?”_

_Cedric’s breath left him in a rush of awful realization. “The king said Wamba cut Albert Malvoisin’s horse out from under him. It was he who sounded the alert that brought the woodsmen to their rescue. He was responsible for thwarting the ambush that was meant to take the king’s life.”_

_Wilfred’s jaw tightened. “Philip is vindictive enough to seek revenge for this offense, and more than sufficiently cowardly to choose the most defenseless target among you,” he said grimly._

_“Wamba was with us, secure within the abbey well before nightfall. How could they snatch him from within its very walls?”_

_“He could have been lured out,” Wilfred said. “Malvoisin must have some sympathetic ally among the brothers.”_

_Cedric felt a snarl rise on his face, outraged that this inviolable sanctuary should become yet another nest of vipers to be regarded with suspicion. “Then I will locate this traitor and he will regret the day he chose to steal from me what is mine.”_

_“Not now,” Wilfred said firmly, stopping his father still again with a strong grip. “Rowena is your first responsibility. You must see her safely home, and I must make haste to your foul neighbor’s domain. If he has Wamba, we must reclaim him with all possible speed.”_

_Cedric knew this to be true. Philip Malvoisin was a notoriously cruel man, famed for the creativity of the tortures he inflicted on his prisoners, more so even than Front-de-Boeuf. As Cedric’s neighbor, he had taken a particular delight in tormenting the Saxon with repeated aggressions toward Rotherwood’s people. It was he who was responsible for laming Gurth’s hound and the flogging that caused Wamba to cloak himself in false madness. The thought of his loyal jester at the mercy of that cruelty again turned Cedric’s stomach. He closed his eyes, breathing deep and forcing his heart to calm._

_“I have orders from the king to arrest Philip,” Wilfred added, “by force if he will not surrender quietly.”_

_“Let us return to Rotherwood together. We can marshal more men there.”_

_Wilfred shook his head, gesturing to the company who rode with him, still mounted and waiting. “There is no time. I will take my men and retrieve him.”_

_Cedric looked closely at the assembled soldiers for the first time, noting the steely demeanor they shared, despite their mismatched armor. “Who are these men?”_

_“Loyal soldiers who fought with us in the Holy Land. I called them back with us, and they met us at York.”_

_Seasoned warriors would do more good than Cedric’s small garrison, so he nodded his assent. “Very well. Malvoisin has been weakened by the recent struggle, and I heard many of his men fled after Torquilstone was sacked. You should have little trouble with him.”_

_“I will see you at Rotherwood,” Wilfred said, “and I will bring Wamba with me.”_

_With a final firm clasp of his hand on Cedric’s arm, he leapt upon his horse and waved his men back to the path, leading them away from the abbey at a brisk pace._

_Cedric’s party departed soon after, and though they set out late they arrived at Rotherwood just as the shadows began to lengthen. Rowena excused herself from the evening meal, claiming what Cedric deemed most justified fatigue, if perhaps tinged by a touch of resentment at being denied the sight of her beloved that day owing to his hasty departure. Cedric had sought to appease her with a promise that he would allow them time together once Wilfred returned from his errand with Malvoisin, but her displeasure lingered._

_The wait was excruciating, but he forced himself to go about his evening and the following day in a routine fashion, presiding over his hall so that his people could observe him returned and overseeing matters that had been delayed by his absence. If his mind wandered with increasingly frequency to what events might be unfolding just beyond the borders of his estates, most were wiser than to comment on his distraction. Only Nora questioned him, when she brought him his solitary midday meal. He raised a curious brow to see his head cook enter rather than his butler, but said nothing as she laid out the roast chicken and dark bread on the table in his chambers._

_“You’re fretting.” Nora was of an age with Cedric and had known him nearly the whole of his life. As such, the small woman had no compunctions speaking bluntly to him, lord or not._

_“I most certainly am not,” he grumbled._

_“Is it Lord Wilfred that worries you, my lord? Or someone else?” she asked, pointedly ignoring his hostility as she filled his cup._

_He snatched the cup from her and took a long swallow of ale. “What do you know of it?”_

_“Wamba’s absence has been noted, my lord,” she said, “and servants are poor secret keepers amongst themselves, on the whole. It is the talk of the kitchens.”_

_“Then as your gossip mongers have no doubt divulged the tale in full, there is surely little I can add.”_

_“You can trust your son, my lord,” Nora said evenly. “If Wamba has been stolen, Wilfred will surely recover him.” Cedric just grunted at this, tearing his meal to pieces with his fingers, though very little of it passed his lips, until Nora left him in peace._

_He was on the verge of abandoning the butchered remains of the fowl entirely when there was an urgent knock at the door._

_“What is it?” he shouted._

_“Riders at the gate, my lord,” came the answering call from beyond the wooden barrier. Cedric was on his feet at once, jerking open the door to stare down at the messenger there._

_“Wilfred?” he demanded._

_“Yes, my lord,” stammered the boy, “and soldiers.”_

_This last he relayed in a shout to Cedric's back, as the Saxon had already brushed past him, striding through the halls as quickly as he could while still maintaining his dignity. Wilfred was in the yard as reported, backed by a much smaller party than that which accompanied him at their last meeting, no more than a half dozen soldiers by Cedric's count._

_He glanced from man to man urgently, until his eyes at last found what they sought. Wamba was wrapped in a dark blue cloak and hanging from the arms of a massive soldier in a rough leather jerkin. He jerked fitfully against the cloak which bound him, struggling to free his limbs, though the towering man had little trouble subduing each contortion. The boy had chewed his lip raw._

_“You were victorious?” Cedric asked Wilfred, forcing his eyes from Wamba._

_“Yes,” Wilfred confirmed with a curt nod. “The battle was short. The rest of my men ride to London with Philip and his compatriots in chains. His people who did not perish or run have been confined in his keep until the king decides the disposal of his lands and properties.”_

_“I see your theory proved true,” Cedric said, nodding toward Wamba, though he did not glance in his direction._

_“Our suspicions were correct. Malvoisin captured Wamba outside the abbey.”_

_“He told you this? Did you learn what ruse was employed to draw him out?”_

_“Wamba could tell us nothing, and on the matter Malvoisin would say only that the traitor was not among the brothers, but closer to your breast than you imagined.”_

_“He means to cast doubt on my loyal servants!” Cedric scoffed. “A last attempt to sow discord in my household, as he has done countless times before.”_

_“Perhaps,” Wilfred said, “but that is a concern for another time. He needs a healer.”_

_Cedric led the way to the physician’s airy chambers in the lower level of the garrison, Wilfred on his heels and the soldier who still bore Wamba following behind. The room was sparsely furnished, with only a high bench for patients and a single chair, but the shelves that lined the walls were filled with the various tools of the healer, including a vast collection of metal devices that Cedric hoped never to find employed on his own person. The physician William was quickly on his feet when he saw Cedric._

_"My lord?"_

_“Your skills are needed once again,” the Saxon said simply._

_“Put him there, Farren,” Wilfred directed the soldier, waving to the bench._

_The man lowered Wamba gently to the wooden surface, one broad hand cradling his head to keep him from braining himself in his feeble struggles. No sooner had he stepped back than Wamba fought his way free of the confining cloak, twisting wildly as though battling a foe only he could see. Cedric put a hand on his shoulder when it looked as though he might fall, but his touch only caused the boy to convulse with fear._

_Cedric looked helplessly at Wilfred. “Was he like this when you found him?”_

_Wilfred shook his head. “No. He was awake, if not lucid. Farren took him up, while I remained to question the torturer. He gave no protest to that. By the time I returned to the yard, he was feverish, and remained so. They made him swallow something, a potion that caused this delirium.”_

_“Malvoisin's man told you nothing of the poison?” William asked, taking hold of Wamba’s legs to still their restless shifting._

_“He professed no knowledge as to the ingredients, only its effects.”_

_“That is unfortunate,” William said darkly, “for without knowing what he has ingested, I cannot risk giving him anything to curb the pain.” He grunted as Wamba jerked suddenly out of his grasp_

_“They had him in some manner of binding, a rope about his neck. They must have meant for him to strangle himself with his struggles.”_

_Cedric clenched his teeth tightly, thinking to Wamba’s joking request never to find another noose about his neck, and how quickly he had been made a liar in his promise. “Is he otherwise injured?” he demanded, pushing the awful image aside. “There is blood on his skin.”_

_William turned Wamba to his side with Wilfred’s help. “It appears to be merely the reopening of old wounds, my lord. I can see no new injury,” he concluded._

_“His feet,” rumbled the towering man, Farren. “They are burned.”_

_Cedric looked, and to his horror found that the soldier spoke the truth. What he had taken for dirt on the soles of Wamba’s feet was in reality a fractured landscape of scorched and broken flesh. Worse still, he recognized the pattern in it. “Is that a brand?”_

_As gently as possible, he caught Wamba’s ankle and held him still to examine the raw flesh. It was indeed the mark of Philip Malvoisin, laid indelibly on his slave. The other foot bore the same mark, but blurred, as though it had been pressed down more than once. Cedric fought the urge to be violently ill. He could not stomach the thought of his own mark on that skin, never mind the mark of his enemy. Moreover, it was clear that Malvoisin’s intent was to cripple him, to take from Wamba his skill and thereby his value._

_“Can this be remedied?” he rasped._

_William moved in to inspect the damage more closely, pressing a finger to the edge of one of the darkest burns and setting Wamba writhing once more. Pained by the feeble struggles, Cedric released the boy, and ordered William and Wilfred away as well with a gesture. No longer restrained, Wamba curled onto his side and shuddered. He blinked open eyes that were wide and black, unseeing._

_Cedric looked back at the physician. “What needs to be done?”_

_“I must clean the wounds, and clear the deadened skin, but I cannot do so under these conditions. He will need to be restrained.”_

_“It must be done now?” Cedric asked. “We cannot let his panic pass? Surely whatever devil’s herb he consumed cannot torment him forever.”_

_William shook his head. “The longer I delay, the more likely he will not walk again. They have already gone untreated too long.”_

_Pacing the stretch of floor on the other side of the table, Wilfred was cursing Malvoisin in a blistering combination of English and Norman French. William, meanwhile, gathered his tools, including flat wooden splints, a pile of linen rags and a set of hinged pincers._

_“Wilfred,” Cedric snapped, bringing his son to a stop, “hold him still.”_

_Still fuming, Wilfred did as he was told, taking a firm grasp on Wamba’s hips and turning him so he lay on his front, keeping him there despite the renewed struggles._

_“You,” Cedric beckoned to the soldier, “you appear strong enough to keep his legs still.”_

_The big man merely nodded, stepping forward without comment to grip Wamba by the ankles and press his legs to the wood. That left his arms for Cedric, and he took both of Wamba’s abraded wrists in one of his hands, placing the other on his shoulder while avoiding the worst of the lashes. The boy fought to free himself, but it was pitifully easy to thwart his efforts. Cedric hushed him quietly, and kept his eyes on their hands, unable to watch as William began to clean the burns and Wamba sobbed._

_It was an agonized eternity before the young slave finally gave up his struggles and surrendered to the ministrations, though his tears never ceased. By the time the physician had covered the burns with a poultice of herbs and tied off the final cloth on the splints, Cedric felt as if his very soul might shatter for the anguish of seeing Wamba so reduced._

_“That will do,” William sighed. He waved Farren away, and the big man stepped back at once. “I will bathe and treat the lashes, and then we can put him to rest.”_

_“Not yet,” Wilfred said quietly, his hands still firm on Wamba’s body._

_“What is it?” Cedric asked._

_“There is blood on his thighs,” was the reply, in a rough whisper._

_Cedric’s heart seized in his chest. Surely Wamba could not have been the victim of such an assault again, not so soon._

_“I see,” William said weakly. “Very well. If you would, please raise him to his knees.”_

_His request was accompanied by a gesture of his hands illustrating the direction that the patient’s legs should take. There was a growing  atmosphere of apprehension in the room as Wilfred carefully lifted slight hips. Wamba gave a hoarse sob when he felt himself being pulled open, and began to resist again, trying to draw his knees together, tugging at his hands to free them from Cedric’s grasp._

_“Be still,” Cedric commanded him._

_“Yes, master.” His voice was desolate, but Wamba stilled, letting Cedric firm his grip._

_The boy’s entire frame trembled, and his tears darkened the earthen floor beneath the bench though the physician’s hand had yet to touch him. Wilfred pulled Wamba’s body tight to his own side to steady him. William, however, made no move. Cedric fixed him with a questioning gaze._

_“Let us be done with this,” he growled._

_“My lord,” William said quietly, “he does not know where he is. Nor who I am.” He paused, hand circling as he searched for words. “He knows only you, my lord. Only that he is restrained, and exposed, and that you have commanded him to submit to it.”_

_Cedric’s eyes widened with sudden understanding, and horror flooded him at the thought of how Wamba must have felt, what he must have believed. He quickly pushed Wilfred aside, and the knight released Wamba and backed away. The jester collapsed at once to the tabletop. Cedric loosed Wamba’s hands, and moved forward to thread his arms beneath the boy’s shoulders, lifting him into a strong embrace, murmuring, “Peace, child. Peace.”_

_Wamba closed handfuls of Cedric’s sleeves in a feeble grip. He pressed his brow to Cedric’s chest, whispering a desperate apology. “Forgive me, master. Please. Forgive me.”_

_The Saxon held him gently, one arm around his back, the other cradling his head. “Why do you apologize?”_

_“I…” Wamba blinked up at him with unfocused eyes. “What have I done, master?”_

_Cedric did his best to calm him, though he was unskilled in the art, and painfully conscious of their silent audience. “Nothing. You have done nothing wrong.”_

_The response was a desolate wail. “Then why do you give me away?”_

_Cedric’s heart cracked, and he tightened his embrace, bringing Wamba close against him. Tilting his head, he spoke directly into the boy’s ear, in the most soothing tone he could manage. “Wamba, do not be afraid. None here will do you harm. Listen to me. You have been hurt, and we only seek to heal you. But we cannot if you do not let us. We need to take care of you. Let us.”_

_For a long moment, there was no change, and Wamba continued to dampen Cedric’s tunic, heaving anguished breaths. Then, it seemed that his words may have been heard, for the boy appeared to regain some control, enough to slow his tears to a steady trickle, and enough to raise his hips once more._

_Cedric felt a knot form in his throat as he watched the young slave place his trust in them, though his eyes could not see clearly, and he had only Cedric’s word to assure him. At his nod, William finally continued his examination. Cedric kept his attention on Wamba. The physician did something that made him shudder and press his face to Cedric’s tunic, yearning after that comfort, and his master gave it to him, keeping up his soothing touches._

_“I cannot say for certain, but I believe there is no new injury here either," came the verdict. "The rough treatment and his struggles merely caused the healing skin to tear.”_

_It was a relief to know that Wamba had been spared that torment at least, though Cedric was shaken by the vivid glimpse of Wamba’s hidden fear._

_“I had no idea his injuries from Torquilstone were still so severe,” he said to William._

_“They were healing well before they were disturbed anew,” the physician huffed, in appearance as exhausted as Cedric felt._

_Wilfred and his man excused themselves quietly now that the tumult had passed, and Cedric resolved to find them both later and thank them for their assistance, and perhaps issue a warning as well. The soldier Farren did not seem the sort of man to talk freely, but it would do no harm to ensure that Wamba’s suffering did not become the newest fireside gossip._

_Once William had treated and wrapped Wamba’s wounds, it was to Cedric to coax him into a soft shift and carry him through to one of the two small cells reserved for the sick and injured. He sat beside Wamba’s cot well past the evening bell and into the night, as the effects of the drug began to wane and Wamba gradually calmed. As he watched the boy succumb to sleep at last, he wondered who Wamba would be when he woke._


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_Cedric did not expect to find Wamba awake when he made his way to the physician’s chambers late the next morning. After the harrowing trials he had weathered, Cedric would not have blamed the boy if he slept for a month or more. Contrary to his expectations, however, his jester was not sleeping, nor was he alone. Nora sat on the edge of the humble cot, speaking softly to Wamba, who nodded along distantly to the cadence of her voice, his eyes fixed on a mostly untouched bowl of porridge resting in his blanketed lap._

_Nora glanced up when Cedric’s shadow darkened the doorway, and her mouth quirked in a private smile. “Well, it looks like you’ve a more illustrious visitor than I to entertain, and I have a kitchen to oversee, so I shall be on my way. I will return with your supper later, and you will eat. No more excuses. Be warned.”_

_Wamba simply nodded again, letting her take his uneaten breakfast from his hands and bestow a gentle caress on his bowed head. She gave Cedric a brief curtsey as she passed._

_“I see it is not only her lord she presumes to order about in such shameless fashion.” Cedric took her place on the cot beside the lump where Wamba’s feet tented the blanket._

_Wamba raised his head to look up at his master. His eyes were red-rimmed and watery, and still not quite focused, betraying the lingering effects of the poison that had stolen his sight the day before. He blinked constantly, as though the light pained him._

_“How are you, Wamba?” Cedric asked._

_He watched the boy struggle to form an answer, warring between admitting the lingering horror that was so clear in his features, or showing his master a brave face. In the end, he did neither._

_“I hope you will accept my apologies on my thoughtless behavior, my lord,” he whispered instead._

_“You were not yourself,” Cedric assured him. “Whatever foul herb they gave you had a most terrible effect. I am glad to see you are somewhat recovered.”_

_“Thank you, my lord,” was the hollow reply, while a faint flush of shame crawled its way up Wamba’s bruised throat to his cheeks._

_“What do you remember?”_

_“Truthfully, very little,” Wamba said to his hands. “It was something like dreaming, but a dream that was every nightmare come to life at once. I could feel everything as if I lived it again. I saw them, all of them. Saw him.”_

_Cedric wondered if it was Galen of whom he spoke, or Front-de-Boeuf, or yet another cruel memory as yet undiscovered. The boy certainly had a deep enough well of suffering to drawn on. “Do you remember returning here?”_

_“Not clearly,” Wamba admitted. “There was only the nightmare, and then your voice. That is the first thing I remember.”_

_While Cedric had known this to be true, known that it was he who had finally had the power to reach Wamba in his delirium, it struck him to hear the boy admit it. His heart ached in a way that was by now growing familiar, unwitting emotion evoked by the battered slave before him._

_“What of the abbey? Is that similarly stolen from your memory?”_

_“Not entirely. I remember our welcome into the sanctuary, but nothing after.”_

_“Why did you venture out unprotected?”_

_Wamba’s brows drew together in a confused frown. “Did I? ”_

_“We suspect that you were lured out, that someone betrayed you to Philip Malvoisin. He is now in chains, and he contends that the traitor is one of my own. I would know if there is any merit to his claim.”_

_“Apologies, my lord,” Wamba whispered. “I cannot recall.”_

_“Then do not trouble yourself.” Cedric laid one hand over Wamba’s ankle through the blanket, letting his thumb brush smoothly along the curve of the prominent bone. “How fare your injuries?”_

_“William says I will heal,” Wamba replied softly, “but my tricks might be beyond me.”_

_“That was certainly Malvoisin’s intention,” Cedric told him._

_“My lord, I can be of use to you in other ways,” Wamba said, a plaintive note to his voice that made Cedric tighten his grip.  
_

_“Do not fret over such a small thing,” he soothed the boy. “I promised you a place here, and it will not be revoked because of misfortunes so beyond your control. Your worth in my eyes is far greater than the sum of your skills. Rest now, and recover. We will discuss your duties at a later time.”_

_Cedric was not by nature an especially gentle man, nor given often to softer emotions. It was all the stranger, therefore, to realize that Wamba stirred something in him that he could not deny. The Saxon’s approval was hard won, and Wamba was one of very few who earned it consistently, his jests remarkably attuned to match or soothe his master’s moods as required. Perhaps it was this truth, combined with some facet of the boy’s sudden vulnerability, his willingness to show his soft underbelly to his master, that moved something deep within the Saxon._

_He was no stranger to providing for the needs of his people. It was, after all, his purpose and duty as their lord to do so. He endeavored to see that his loyal servants received that which they required, but he was unaccustomed to that need being so personal and so very immediate. It stretched the long unused muscles of his compassion, causing him to reach out in ways that would once have been inconceivable to him. He had surprised himself as much as Wamba with his words and actions since Torquilstone._

_A tear flashed down to wet Wamba’s hand. “Thank you, master.”_

_Over the following days, Cedric spied Wamba regularly, performing his slow, unsteady walks about the yard. On these occasions, he was most often to be seen with the soldier who had carried him back to Rotherwood, supporting the jester with one hand as he stretched his healing muscles and relearned his balance. Wilfred departed to aid the king in his final campaign to consolidate his power once more, and the greater part of his soldiers went with him. Rowena made preparation for their wedding, which was to take place when Wilfred returned from London._

_One month later, Rotherwood had settled into a renewed peace and Cedric presided over a cheerful hall. The fires danced merrily as Rotherwood's people gathered in the presence of their lord for the evening meal. Cedric sat above them on the dais reserved for his household and honored guests. The jester's stool, which stood yet behind his great chair, was abandoned, and Wamba himself sat at the lower tables, among the servants and guardsmen. It was an arrangement that Cedric had insisted upon, in light of the fact that he now knew Wamba to be of very sound mind, and the shame of having the boy beg scraps from his table was too much for his heart to bear._

_Now, the small chair was empty, and the jester one of the crowd, though still very much the entertainer. The ease with which he suited himself to any company was somewhat disconcerting to Cedric, who was a plain man, and not given to pretense. But he accepted it and watched, feeling that tenderness of emotion that plagued him still, as his young slave joined his fellows again. The favored rumor among the people of Rotherwood was that the descent to the lower tables was a reward for his bravery in sacrificing himself for his master, and thus winning the battle. Other rumors were not so kind to Wamba. Though the events at Torquilstone were hazy and wrapped in a great deal of mystery, what most needed to be understood easily was, from one look at the boy whose face and body now bore the marks of his devotion._

_Wamba was seated between two of the porters, his gaunt frame slight next to their big-muscled bulk, in a loose tunic of plain linen to prevent further irritation of his tender back, and leggings stained a deep red. The sleeves of the tunic were long, falling down past his wrists far enough to cover the scars left by heavy rope. The top, however, lay open and the marks of his hanging were visible, his neck still bare of the collar. It was Cedric's firm intention that another never be fitted._

_The boy's face was cast in the golden light of the central fire, and it served to camouflage the scars over the angles of his face, making him appear almost a normal lad among his fellows, though it could not disguise the dark shadows that spoke of exhaustion that was slow to fade. While he was always jovial in company, Cedric had grown more skilled at seeing past the mask, to the quiet that fell over him in the lull before another jest was wanted and he came to life again, the way his arms closed unconsciously about his own body at times until he remembered himself and forced his posture to loosen.  
_

_Watching this turmoil, he perhaps should not have been surprised when he found Wamba at his door one night. It was late into the evening, though Cedric was still reviewing the records submitted to him by his steward, when a knock sounded. It was so hesitant, Cedric thought at first he must have imagined it. At least, until he padded over and pulled open the door to find Wamba in the corridor, barefoot and wrapped in a worn shift._

_“Wamba?” He frowned at the unusual sight. “Are you unwell?”_

_“No, my lord,” Wamba whispered, his shoulders drawing up toward his ears._

_“Did you have some purpose to call upon me?” Cedric tried again, baffled by this odd midnight visit._

_Wamba swallowed, his eyes fixed firmly on the stones at Cedric’s feet. “May I speak with you, my lord?”_

_“Yes,” Cedric agreed curtly. “Come inside. There is little sense in conducting audiences in the corridor.”_

_The Saxon turned and led the way to the table, sweeping his scrolls away for another time and noting the soft clatter of the door closing behind him._

_“I must say that your timing, as well as your attire, are somewhat different than I am accustomed from my attendants. Am I to surmise that your wish came to you in a dream and you could not resist but leap up and share it with me in all haste?”_

_“In a manner of speaking, my lord,” Wamba said quietly behind him, though there was nothing of the usual humor in his voice._

_“Ah!” Cedric thumped the table with a fist. “So I shall finally learn what boon you would…”_

_The Saxon’s words died in his throat as he turned. Wamba had pulled his shift over his head, and stood bare with head bowed and hands fisted and wound in the rough cloth._

_Cedric took a quiet breath to steady himself, and when he spoke his voice was calm, and not unkind._

_“I fear you will need to explain this to me better, Wamba.”_

_Wamba spoke without raising his head. “You are my master. But you have never...” He did not finish his sentence, but his meaning was clear._

_Cedric took a step forward and placed a hand on Wamba’s shoulder. The boy flinched away before he caught himself, and Cedric wondered how he could possibly stand what he was asking for if he could not bear even that simple touch. “Such things are not customary.”_

_“I know, my lord.” Wamba’s voice cracked on his shamed whisper._

_“Then for what reason do you ask?” Cedric pushed again, never breaking the contact between his hand and the cold skin of Wamba’s hunched shoulder._

_“I wish to be free of them.” His words were desperate, and Cedric saw his knees buckle for an instant. He suspected that another moment would see Wamba at his feet. So he stepped forward, and took his slave into his arms, holding him in a strong embrace._

_“Your sleep is troubled still.” It made a terrible sort of sense. The drug had brought all of Wamba’s memories to the fore, broken down his defenses and forced him to relive the horrors of his past. It was no great wonder that such a torment should linger in his dreams._

_He did not need Wamba to confirm it. The truth was clear enough to see._

_“Very well.” Cedric spoke soothingly, that tenderness that Wamba evoked rising again and bringing him to a resolution within himself. “If this is a thing you need of me, it will be yours. I promised you any boon I can grant, and this is certainly within my power. You are mine now, and if you desire, I will claim you as such.”_

_He could feel the change in Wamba. A relieved exhalation escaped his lips, but every muscle petrified in obvious dread._

_So he said again, clearly and meaningfully, “If it is what you desire.”_

_Wamba gave a short nod that Cedric did not see, but felt against his chest. “Yes. Please.”_

_“Then come.” Cedric thought it best to do it quickly, before his own doubts could stop him, before Wamba became so frightened that he fell to pieces. He released the boy from his arms and led him by the elbow to the great bed. Once there, he reached out to pull the coarse shift from Wamba’s hands. This proved a more difficult task than anticipated, for Wamba had fretted it into a tight coil about anxious fingers._

_“I will not have you bound,” he said, feeling Wamba’s eyes on his face at last as he worked the linen free. He directed Wamba up onto the thick furs and blankets, settling him against the sparse cushions and hard wood of the head. Wamba’s hands fell to either side of him and fidgeted against the wool, his eyes tracking Cedric as he moved about the room._

_Cedric stripped off his tunic but did not remove his loose trousers. He went in search of anything that he might use to ease their joining. He had not indulged in this sort of pleasure since the indiscretions of his youth, but he remembered well that lesson at least. While he was certain that Wamba would utter no word of complaint, though Cedric carelessly tore him open, he did not intend to be careless. Hard on the heels of that thought came another, a heavy and sickening comprehension. Wamba had not come expecting pleasure from him. He had no experience but that which had been forced upon him and was now relived over and over in his nightmares. He thought that being taken was meant to hurt, because it always had._

_It was no wonder, then, that he should shy from Cedric’s touch even as he asked for it. His need and his dread were both the truth, only that the need had at last outweighed the other. This new realization hardened Cedric’s resolve. He settled finally on a simple salve of sage and yarrow, carrying the pot with him to the bed. He slid up between Wamba’s legs, which opened without prompting. Wamba’s body betrayed his lack of physical desire in unequivocal terms. Cedric decided to leave that matter for later, concentrating first on showing Wamba that pain was not a necessary part of this act before he addressed the possibility of pleasure._

_He scooped a generous amount of salve from the jar, warming it between his fingers before he placed them lightly against the juncture of Wamba’s legs. The boy’s breath hitched, his eyes falling closed and his hands tightening as he braced himself for the intrusion. Cedric stopped, and held his fingers still, just pressing gently, making their presence known, until Wamba opened his eyes again, dark with confusion._

_“Try to keep calm,” Cedric told him. “If you are calm, you will feel very little pain.”_

_He watched Wamba’s throat bob on a swallow, doubt that he would never voice drawn clear on his face._

_“Do you believe me?”_

_“Yes, master,” Wamba answered at once._

_“Good,” Cedric said, and pressed a single finger past the resistance and into Wamba’s body. Wamba gasped in a ragged breath, but he kept his eyes on Cedric, doubt fading to confusion as he realized his master had spoken the truth, that penetration could be painless._

_“Do you see?” Cedric asked him, building a slow rhythm._

_“Yes, master,” Wamba said again, a relieved smile playing about the corners of his eyes._

_Cedric gave him no warning for the next finger, adding it on an inward stroke and watching Wamba’s eyes flutter closed. It was Cedric’s turn to smile, though Wamba could not see him. It seemed the boy might have a greater natural appreciation for this than anticipated._

_Cedric could not deny that he saw in Wamba a disquieting appeal. The Saxon had watched Wamba grow from a spindly-limbed child to a graceful youth, his tumbling taken on an alluring quality that was surely as unintended as it was maddening. He had never entertained these thoughts for long, and he forced them down now, pushing them from his mind on the certainty that what Wamba needed from him was not his lust. He resolved himself to be calm and detached about granting Wamba’s request. He would not do anything that would allow him to be confused with the slavering beasts that had used the boy in the past._

_So he made sure Wamba’s body was thoroughly prepared, soft and easy around him before he withdrew. Dark eyes opened, watching and waiting for what would come next._

_“This will be easier if you turn,” Cedric said._

_Wamba did as he asked at once, folding his limbs and shifting to present his back to Cedric. The Saxon noted the brief flash of unease in his eyes, but did not dwell overlong on it. He was considering instead that he might have made the wrong choice asking Wamba to turn, as he was confronted suddenly with the angry mess of healing scars that riddled Wamba's back. Even long weeks later, they were still raised and tender, evoking a sick pity in Cedric. They served to remind him to go gently, if nothing else._

_Wamba lifted himself to his knees, bracing his elbows on the bed and falling still, but for the faint trembling of his limbs. Cedric took the boy’s hips in both hands, tilting him up further, and Wamba let his master position him as he wished. Cedric closed his eyes as he stroked himself to hardness, working the slick salve over his own flesh. When he was finally ready, he shuffled into position and pressed his cock to Wamba’s waiting body. The boy shivered, but made no effort to pull away._

_“Are you ready?” Cedric asked quietly._

_“Yes, master,” came the whispered reply._

_Not permitting himself to doubt, Cedric brought his weight to bear and began to sink slowly into his slave. Wamba made a soft sound in his throat, the ghost of a whine, so Cedric stroked a hand down his flank to comfort him, though he did not slow his inexorable push forward. He paused once he was fully seated, letting Wamba become accustomed to the feeling._

_“Are you in pain?” he asked, his voice bearing a hint of a growl._

_“Oh,” Wamba breathed, a soft realization. “No. No, master.”_

_“Good.” Cedric punctuated this with the first real thrust, pulling himself free enough to snap his hips forward, wringing a gasp from the boy beneath him. He tilted his hips just so as he thrust again, and Wamba’s head snapped up on a surprised cry._

_Cedric nodded to himself. “There we are.” He slipped his free hand around Wamba’s hip to insinuate it between his legs, pleased to discover that the boy was responding now, his cock growing heavy. Cedric gave it several encouraging strokes, while keeping up a steady rhythm with his hips._

_Wamba began to shake around him, his limbs trembling dangerously as he struggled to hold himself up beneath the unaccustomed pleasure. The tremors intensified steadily until, with no warning, Wamba shuddered and spilled silently over Cedric’s hand. The Saxon quickly followed suit, burying himself fully inside Wamba and filling him with a groan._

_For a time they remained that way, catching their breath, until Cedric pulled back and fell to his back on the furs. Wamba’s legs folded and he rolled carefully to his side, his eyes wide open and watching Cedric._

_“Does the remedy suit?” the Saxon asked gruffly, tilting up one brow as he looked at the boy._

_“Yes,” Wamba said quietly. “Thank you, master.”_

_“That is well,” Cedric murmured, and heaved a tired sigh. Through the contentment of release, his body was endeavoring to remind him that he was no longer the spry young knight who had once engaged in such midnight escapades. He stretched out his back, wincing at the loud crack as bones shifted._

_Wamba watched him a moment longer, blinking uncertainly, then carefully pushed himself up and moved to leave._

_“Do you mean to make your escape now that you’ve gotten what you wanted from me?” Cedric asked._

_Wamba glanced back over his shoulder at him. “I did not mean to overstay my welcome, my lord.”_

_“Nonsense,” Cedric scoffed, patting the bed beside him. “Come here.”_

_Wamba, after a short pause, subsided, and lay back down on the bed, curled in the space beside Cedric that was normally empty. The boy was shivering slightly, the heat seeping out of his muscles, and Cedric, perceiving the cold in the room as well, pulled the heavy bedclothes up to cover them both._

_He ran his hand once, gently, over Wamba’s hair. “Sleep, child.”_

_Cedric watched Wamba’s eyes slide closed, his face relax, and felt his own doing the same. He slept peacefully, dreaming of summer days long past._

_When he woke in the morning, Wamba was gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for m/m sex that is consensual but could read as dub-con. Wamba is 16.


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_It was only in the light of day that Cedric began to doubt the wisdom of his actions. Wamba occupied his thoughts throughout the morning, and the longer he considered it, the more he feared he may have done more harm than good. He knew that Wamba was young, and badly hurt, and seeking comfort he did not know how to ask for in any other way. Cedric might have been kinder to examine the motive behind the boy’s unexpected request more closely rather than granting it without question. Wamba’s abrupt disappearance during the night did nothing to calm his disquiet. More than anything, the Saxon was haunted by the searching look that he had been too weary to decipher the night before. There had been something in that gaze that he could not quite name, hovering between uncertainty and wonder, a question unasked and unanswered._

_These were the thoughts that occupied him still as he thrust his goblet out for Oswald to refill and looked out across his hall that evening, seeking and failing to find a single familiar form among the gathered servants. He was listening with half an ear to Rowena as she explained in minute detail why only a certain exotic and no doubt costly fabric would serve for her wedding veil. He wondered idly why she went to such lengths to convince him, when she no doubt already knew he would agree to the expense, and drank deep of his wine, fighting down a frustrated sigh. It was a surprise to hear Rowena fall suddenly silent, and he glanced to the side in time to see a delighted smile rising on her lips._

_“Well, that is a welcome sight,” she laughed, covering her mouth demurely with one hand._

_Cedric pulled his attention at last from the bottom of his wine cup and followed her gaze to find Wamba standing in the center of the hall, in the open space between the two long rows of tables, his hands on his hips and an exaggerated scowl darkening his features. Cedric’s heart stuttered. After Wamba’s unusual behavior, he was no longer certain what to expect from the boy, and it occurred to him suddenly that if Wamba chose to announce what they had done to all of Rotherwood, Cedric could not stop him._

_All of this he thought in a moment of mounting alarm, which stalled to an abrupt halt as the corner of Wamba’s mouth turned up suddenly in a small smile, secret and just for his master. Cedric’s tension fled, replaced by dawning realization. This was no challenge, but an offering, a reassurance that they were now as they had ever been. He knew this game, and Wamba was inviting him to play it._

_“My lord,” he called, voice carrying easily as the hall fell silent around him, “what have I done that you treat me so cruelly?”_

_“What, fool?” Cedric rejoined gruffly, pleased to see Wamba’s smile widen. “How come you to make these spurious claims against me?”_

_Wamba tossed his head with a mocking laugh. “A fool I must be, Uncle, for it begs a wiser man that I to see your purpose in depriving me of all my playthings. How should a fool fulfill his vocation with neither motley nor bauble?”_

_Catching on to the jest, Cedric picked a rosy skinned apple from a bowl on his table and tossed it lightly in one hand, giving Wamba warning before he threw it in a swift arc across the hall. “There,” he snapped. “Be content with that and trouble me no further.”_

_Wamba snatched the apple easily from the air, polishing it casually against his pale linen tunic. “Most generous, Uncle, but I fear you will find the spectacle exceptionally dull, else make of me a beggar.”_

_“You try my patience,” Cedric said warningly, keeping as stern a mien as he was able. “Go to, let us see if you are worthy of your title.”_

_The barb struck too close to true. Cedric saw it in the minute tightening of Wamba’s expression, but the boy kept the smile on his face. “Indeed, my lord,” he said evenly. “Let us see, at that.”_

_Wamba tossed the apple lightly into the air, letting it drop to land on the toe of his boot. With a casual flip of his foot, he sent it flying again, bending his knees and ducking his head to bring it to rest, perfectly upright, on top of his head. A delighted laugh rippled through the hall, and Cedric could contain his own smile no longer._

_Wamba balanced the apple easily, extending an empty hand to the nearest table. “Can no one spare a trinket for a poor fool?” He waved at one of the younger porters. “Sabert, you are a kind soul. Surely some small charity?”_

_Chuckling, the heavily freckled young man tossed another apple into Wamba’s hand. The jester quickly flipped it into the air and kept it there, spinning a lonely circuit around him. A few moments later, he had wheedled several more from the crowd, sending each one aloft, to join the whirling pattern._

_“Now if only I had a drum to beat the time!” Wamba cried, and the spectators began at once to clap, setting a steady rhythm to which Wamba quickly matched his steps, his feet moving in a smooth pattern that carried him across the hall, spinning from one side to the other even as the first apple, Cedric’s apple, remained perfectly balanced atop his head._

_As always, his movements appeared effortless, the captivating dance of the makeshift balls fluid and natural as they spun from pattern to pattern. It was easy to leave it at that, but Cedric knew this performance for what it was, proof of the hard fought battle Wamba had won to regain mastery of his body, fluency of movement despite the severity of the injuries he had been dealt. It was not quite flawless, the hint of a furrow between his brows despite the bright smile, the unsteady tremble of one ankle as it took his weight on a backward step, but it was more than enough to declare his victory, and Cedric could not contain the swelling pride in his heart._

_He was smiling broadly when the pattern shifted again into a simple wheel, and Wamba began to divest himself of his playthings. He tossed each apple back to its donor, pacing slowly and deliberately toward the dais, until he snatched the final apple from his head and presented it with a flourish to Cedric on an open palm, his smile shy and hopeful. The steady clapping burst into a rush of applause._

_Cedric took the apple from his palm. “Well done, Wamba,” he said, just loud enough that the words carried to the boy’s ears. Wamba’s smile widened into a grateful grin, his cheeks flushing with pleasure at the praise. He gave his master one final bow, and retreated._

_Cedric thought that would be the end of it, the balance restored between them at last and his duty done. He spared a thought for the emptiness of his bed those first nights, long unnoticed until it had been brought to stark attention, but he did not dwell on the matter. He had survived all the years since his wife’s death without an intimate companion, and could do the same again. He had convinced himself of it until, nearly three weeks later, another quiet knock sounded on his door._

_Wamba was no less hesitant the second time, though his fear was somewhat diminished as he stripped himself of his garments and submitted to his master’s careful attentions. Cedric kept him on his back that time, watching his face contort in another silent climax._

_It became something of a pattern between them. By day, they shared an easy rapport, Wamba matching himself to Cedric’s mood as easily as he ever had, but every few weeks, Wamba returned to his master’s chamber, seeking solace. He was ever more timid, nervous and unsure of his welcome, as though he feared Cedric’s patience might have run dry in the interim since his last visit. Each time, Cedric guided him to the bed and brought Wamba to release before he let himself succumb to pleasure, and each time Wamba was gone before morning._

_They might have persisted in that way indefinitely if not for Nora. It was still dark when Cedric was woken by a page knocking at his door. He woke grudgingly, remembering that he was to set out at dawn to accompany the lady Rowena to St John’s Kirk to offer prayers and receive blessing before her wedding day. He thanked the page, and dispatched him off to the kitchens to have breakfast sent._

_It was only when he closed the door and turned that he realized he was not alone. Wamba lay still in the great bed, curled tightly beneath the blankets so that only the top of his mussed blonde head betrayed his presence. Cedric paused for a moment, watching the faint lump rise and fall with the slow breaths of deep sleep, and wondered if he should wake the boy or let him rest. It was the first time Cedric had woken before Wamba, and he was somewhat appeased to realize that Wamba did not merely wait for him to nod off before making his escape, but was in the habit of sharing Cedric’s bed for the bulk of the night before stealing back to his own._

_Deciding not to disturb him just yet, Cedric quickly washed and dressed. He was pulling on his boots and contemplating waking Wamba once more, when the door opened and Nora bustled in without so much as a warning, bearing a heavily laden tray. She set it down on the table, quickly laying out warm plates before him. Cedric gave her a disapproving glare, hoping to disguise his sudden panic and to distract her from the bed if at all possible. His efforts were wasted, however, as she noticed Wamba almost at once._

_“Now, that is a welcome sight,” she said approvingly._

_“What do you mean?” he demanded, attempting to cover his discomfort with his annoyance. Nora’s easy acceptance had thrown him._

_“I mean it is a pleasure to see him sleeping in a bed rather than on my hearth,” the cook said cheerily, pouring Cedric a cup of weak cider._

_“He sleeps on the hearth?” Cedric asked incredulously._

_“When he sleeps at all,” she nodded, “which is rare of late.”_

_“Does he not have a bed of his own?”_

_“Oh, yes, but it's hardly a surprise he would be uneasy in his cell, now that Gurth has gone.”_

_It had not occurred to Cedric that Wamba might be lonely. The boy was well loved among Rotherwood’s people, and surely never lacked for company, but none of them but a chosen few knew his secrets. Without Gurth, who had been his constant companion for years, it was no wonder he could not rest easy, particularly as the specters of his past continued to haunt his dreams._

_“You have done well, my lord,” Nora said into his contemplative silence._

_Cedric turned his head to look at her, shifting his gaze from Wamba. “Well?” he repeated, raising an incredulous brow._

_She gave him a reassuring smile. “That boy has been putting up masks for as long as I have known him. But here, with you, he has lowered all his defenses.”_

_“How can you know this?”_

_“He has been as one of my children for many years. He told me what happened to him.”_

_There was a long pause, while Cedric weighing his own reservations against long experience that told him that Nora’s advice was always worth the time, and the fact that she had seen Wamba in his bed and evidently found no shame in it._

_“He will not stay unless I ask him,” he admitted grudgingly, “and I do not understand why, after so long, he still requires the invitation.”_

_“It is because he believes you do not want him,” she said simply, with a shrug._

_“What?” His brow furrowed, shocked that she should know this fact._

_Nora’s hands stilled. She turned her calm eyes to her lord. “Have you ever asked him to come to you?”_

_Cedric rejected the thought at once. “Of course not. He comes to me when he chooses. For me to cause him to come would make me no better than those who have taken him against his will.”_

_“Surely you know that there is a difference, my lord,” she said reprovingly. “He knows it, too. But as long as he believes he is the only one of you who harbors these desires, he will continue to slink to you in the dark, hiding his shame, and leave just as he came.”_

_Cedric’s gaze was fixed on Wamba again. “What can I do?” he asked roughly, any embarrassment he might have felt overshadowed by the need to correct his unwitting error._

_“Do you care for him?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Do you desire him?”_

_This time Cedric was not so quick to answer. It was difficult to disregard the suspicion that admitting to his desire for the abused boy would make him the same as the abusers. He had carefully suppressed the awareness of his attraction to protect his conscience. He never had and never would take advantage of the people under his care in that way. But Wamba had come to him and that thought absolved him. Wamba had trusted Cedric._

_“Yes,” he admitted at last._

_“Then show him that. When you feel the time is right, invite him into your company. Treat him like a lover. You will see. He will stay, if you make him feel welcome.”_

_Cedric did not speak further, consumed by his thoughts. Nora took her leave with a curtsey and a knowing smile. Cedric turned to the food, and to his preparations, and took his leave quietly. Wamba still had not stirred. Nora’s words stayed with him throughout the three day journey to the abbey and back, and by the time he arrived home he had made up his mind._

_The hall was boisterous that evening, lifting Cedric’s mood with the light voices. Below the dais, his face angled away from Cedric, Wamba was gesticulating animatedly, holding the attention of half the table around him. As whatever jest he was spinning reached its peak, and laughter rang around him, Cedric was suddenly struck by how absolutely appealing the curve of the slave’s neck and shoulders was, and a glimmer of desire, sweet and familiar, woke in his belly. For once, he did not force it away, but let it blossom, a tender swell of emotion._

_Cedric’s concentrated gaze had caused Wamba to turn his attention. The jester was now looking at him expectantly from where he sat. Cedric tilted his head, and Wamba accurately read the gesture, leaving his fellows to kneel down behind Cedric’s chair._

_“My lord?” he asked quietly._

_Cedric gestured for Wamba to rise to his level, and turned his head, keeping his eyes on the hall._

_“Will you come to me tonight?”_

_He phrased it as neutrally as possible, hoping beyond reason that Wamba would hear an invitation, rather than a command. Nevertheless, there was an instant stillness beside him, and he wondered if he might have misjudged. It was only a moment, however, before Wamba recovered, sketching a bow._

_“Yes, my lord.”_

_The title was distant, but the acceptance was not reluctant, and when Cedric glanced his way, he saw the hint of a smile in dark eyes. So the Saxon nodded and Wamba withdrew. He returned to his meal, savoring the spark of keen anticipation for the night ahead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic consensual m/m sex. Wamba is 16.


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for chapter warnings (spoilers).

_Cedric retired early that evening, taking his leave while the hall was still full. He called for wine and an extra cup to be brought to his chambers, and ignored Oswald’s curious looks when he ushered the nosy servant out the door, setting the wine down to await Wamba’s arrival. It was a small thing, hardly noteworthy, but that it was more than he had afforded Wamba on any previous occasion. The Saxon settled in his favorite high-backed chair, considering with faint regret the many small ways he had been unfair to the boy._

Treat him like a lover.

_Nora’s uncomfortably direct admonishment had forced him to confront how very cold his actions thus far had been. His staunch denial of all attraction, his refusal to let himself be moved by lust, had rendered their handful of encounters dispassionate imitations of true intimacy. He had given Wamba what he asked in form but not in spirit, caused the boy to believe that his company was a burden rather than a pleasure, and it was this that he meant now to rectify._

_The familiar quiet knock came a short time later. Cedric called for his visitor to enter, and was treated to the sight of the door opening just a crack, Wamba blinking cautiously at him through the narrow opening._

_“Come in, then,” he said irritably, “and close the door behind you.”_

_He regretted the harshness of his tone, but could not quite bring himself to apologize. Wamba did as commanded, crossing the room to stand several paces from Cedric, his hands clasped behind his back and head bowed._

_“Sit,” Cedric said, nodding to the second chair and the cup that sat before it._

_“My lord?” Wamba ventured uncertainly, clearly flustered by this alteration of their usual pattern._

_“I wish to share a cup with you,” Cedric said calmly. “Is that agreeable?”_

_“Of course, my lord,” Wamba said at once. He sat gingerly on the edge of the empty chair and took the cup Cedric offered to him in both hands, wrapping his fingers around the polished sides and glancing down at the crimson wine within. The Saxon sought to tell himself it was really no different to meals in the hall, when Wamba still occupied the jester’s stool and Cedric fed him from his own hand, though the quiet anticipation in the air between them and the weight of the gesture forced to him to abandon the comparison. Wamba held the cup before him, but did not drink._

_“Do you not care for it?” Cedric asked him._

_“I do, my lord,” he said, taking a quick mouthful. “Thank you.”_

_The boy was palpably nervous, his eyes darting from the cup to Cedric and back anxiously. It was precisely this sort of awkward moment that Cedric had been hoping to avoid with the help of the wine, so he took a deep swallow and watched Wamba do the same, his shoulders dropping a touch as the potent vintage began to do its work. In the meantime, he attempted to steer them to more familiar ground._

_“It was remarkably dull on the road without you,” he said conversationally. “I think I might reconsider my position on the necessary degree of solemnity for these religious pilgrimages.”_

_That won a small smile from Wamba, who met his eyes at last. “As long as I am not required to take religious orders, I am happy to accompany you. I have had my turn as friar and cannot say that I found it suited me particularly well.”_

_Cedric chuckled. “I confess I did not find the robe and cowl any more agreeable than you, though it served its purpose admirably enough.”_

_“That it did, my lord.” Wamba took another swallow of wine, and Cedric watched his throat move beneath the scars his disguise had earned him, in exchange for Cedric’s freedom. The reminder brought to the surface again the tenderness that the Saxon had endeavored for months to quell, without success._

_“I trust you found some suitable occupation for yourself in my absence,” he said, as much to distract himself as to keep Wamba engaged._

_“There is always work to be done in the kitchens, and the gatehouse,” Wamba assured him. “My hands have not been idle, my lord.”_

_“I did not doubt it. Meanwhile, the silence afforded me opportunity to think on various matters along the journey.”_

_Wamba laughed under his breath, eyes on his cup. “Then I am pleased that I could serve by my absence, my lord.”_

_“In my thinking, I came to conclude that I am not content with things between us as they are.”_

_Wamba fell perfectly still. Cedric had one moment to realize how his words might be heard, before Wamba reached out and placed his cup carefully on the table with shaking hands. “I understand, my lord,” he whispered._

_“No, you do not,” Cedric told him. Wamba had come to him each time expecting rejection. It was little wonder that he should expect the worst now. “Let me speak.”_

_Wamba nodded mutely, hands twisted in his lap._

_“Do not think that my welcome was insincere. I have been glad of your visits, but if they are to continue, we must have an understanding between us.”_

_“An understanding, my lord?” Wamba asked quietly._

_Cedric put his cup down and regarded the boy seriously. “I would have you as a true companion, Wamba, and all that means. If you are in agreement.”_

_Wamba looked up at him, confusion tinted with the faintest glimmer of longing in his face. There was still so much he did not understand, that there was more to intimacy than offering his body and hoping to receive some comfort as a consequence. In holding himself back, refusing to bestow even a simple kiss, Cedric had only given the boy more proof that he was worthy of being used, but nothing more. Wamba deserved better, and Cedric had realized he wanted to be the one to open the boy's eyes to those possibilities._

_“Let me show you.”_

_He stood and offered Wamba his hand, lifting the boy effortlessly to his feet when thin fingers fell into his own. He gave Wamba’s hand a reassuring clasp as he used it to pull him close, looking down into dark eyes that were widening with the realization of what Cedric meant to do. With no more than an inch between their bodies, Cedric placed his hands lightly on either side of Wamba’s face, making his intentions very clear. Wamba trembled, but did not close his eyes._

_The first meeting was soft and brief, just a brush of lips, but it made Wamba gasp. Cedric slid an arm around the boy’s waist and held him close as he repeated the kiss, slowly increasing the pressure with each return, letting the caress linger. Wamba was shaken and uncertain, tilting his head just slightly to offer a better angle, but little more, so Cedric set about coaxing him out with gentle flicks of his tongue, gradually teasing the boy’s lips apart until he could delve into the wine sweet mouth. On the second foray, Wamba finally began to respond, offering an uncertain brush of his tongue against his master’s, gaining confidence as his first hesitant touches were not rebuffed. Slowly, he let his tongue tangle with Cedric’s, mouth opening wider to welcome him with a soft sigh. It was only then that Cedric injected real dominance into the joining, pressing control. Wamba’s knees instantly gave way._

_Cedric caught him against his own body without breaking the kiss, concentrating on exploring every corner of Wamba’s mouth, burying his hand in the boy’s hair and using it to hold him still for the sudden onslaught. Once he was satisfied with his thorough survey of this new terrain, he finally pulled away and watched Wamba’s eyes slide open, dazed and lit with growing arousal. Feeling his own desire rising fast in response, he stretched his arms down to slip his hands beneath Wamba’s rump, lifting his light form easily so Wamba was forced to bend his knees and grip his master’s shoulders, blinking at him in surprise. Cedric smirked as he carried him the short distance to the bed and placed him on the edge. He crowded close as Wamba’s legs opened wider in invitation, moving forward until their hips were pressed warmly together._

_“Lovely,” he growled, watching Wamba’s eyes flutter closed and his reddened mouth part on an indrawn breath. Letting his hands glide up Wamba’s sides, he resumed the interrupted kiss, licking Wamba’s mouth open and taking it for his own. Wamba braced his hands behind him on the furs to keep him upright, but they could not hold for long, and soon he was sinking backwards under the weight of his master’s gentle passion. Cedric broke away long enough to slide Wamba’s loose tunic over his head, easing him down to the bed and reclaiming his mouth as soon as the he was free of the cloth, one hand fanning across the shallow cage of his ribs possessively._

_When their lips met, Wamba arched up, his hands moving, fluttering uncertainly in the air, unsure of their welcome. Cedric reached up, without breaking the kiss, and caught the boy’s hands in his own, bringing them down to rest on his head. He held them there, assuring that the touch was permitted. Wamba hummed into Cedric’s mouth as he slid his hands loosely into the Saxon’s graying hair. For the first time, Wamba allowed himself to touch his master in return, the soft brush of his fingers making Cedric’s scalp tingle and his hips jerk._

_Irritated suddenly by the clothing that remained as a barrier between them, Cedric lifted himself away at last with a gasp, standing to pull off his own garments, under Wamba’s concentrated gaze. He took the opportunity to remove Wamba’s leggings as well, and the boy lifted his body to let Cedric slide them over his narrow hips, shifting further back on the bed as he did. Cedric encouraged the movement, guiding Wamba toward the headboard. The Saxon slid up after him, kneeling over the trembling boy who was watching him expectantly, waiting to see what Cedric wanted of him._

_“Let me look at you.”_

_Wamba spread his arms out to either side, his legs falling open to offer Cedric whatever he wished, pose and face both open and trusting. Letting the sudden swell of tenderness wash over him again, Cedric placed his hands on Wamba’s hips, and looking at where they lay realized that while he had taken his pleasure in this body, he had never bothered to truly explore it, due to his lingering reservations. He set about to make amends for this carelessness, allowing himself to appreciate the appeal of warm skin over lean muscle, the narrow hips and slender limbs. He ran his hands over the pale peaks of protruding hipbones, the slight but perceptible curve of Wamba’s waist, brushing across the marks that Torquilstone had left on him. The scars, far from being unappealing, proved an extra dimension to their bond, a visible sign of the boy’s devotion that should be noted and praised, not brushed over as though they were cause for shame._

_Cedric let his hands wander further, up Wamba’s sides and across his chest, pressing and teasing, looking for the sensitive places. Wamba, gasping and overcome, turned his hands to clench them in the bedclothes, but Cedric removed them gently, twining them in his own, lacing their fingers together and pinning Wamba’s hands to the bed on either side of his head as he softly took the boy’s mouth again. Wamba welcomed him at once, mouth opening to receive his tongue with a happy little moan. They kissed for long minutes, Wamba surrendering to Cedric’s gentle insistence and letting the tension in his muscles thaw._

_When they parted, the Saxon brought his hands up to frame Wamba’s face again. He studied it for a moment, his gaze skipping from mark to mark as he tallied the damage there, and finally met Wamba’s eyes before he leaned down again. His first kiss fell on the corner of Wamba’s swollen mouth, where a thin web of scarring was just visible, left behind by the force of many blows. He ran his thumb along Wamba’s bottom lip, letting it guide him, and placed another kiss on the opposite corner. He pressed a kiss to each eyelid, one below each ear. A flick of his tongue and an open-mouthed kiss to the long, thin scar that Front-de-Boeuf had left on his cheek as proof of his mastery over Cedric’s slave, and Wamba realized what he was doing._

_“Master,” he whispered, as his trembling intensified. Cedric hushed him, sliding tender fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, dropped a series of kisses along the crisscrossed scars left by his hanging, and one to the hollow between his collarbones, tasting a faint trace of soap on his skin there, proof that Wamba had made his own preparations for the night._

_Cedric smiled, running his hands up the clearly defined collarbones, over Wamba’s shoulders and along his arms. The boy’s breathing sped when Cedric reached his wrists, and wringed them in a loose grip. He brought first one hand, then the other to his mouth, paying tender attention to each finger, and the cuffs of scars that marked his wrists, holding Wamba’s gaze as he did. Only when he had thoroughly explored each did he replace Wamba’s hands on the bed and move on, leaning over the boy again to run his hands down the narrow chest, deliberately lining each of the eight scars that cut across it with his tongue and delighting in the way it hitched beneath the attention._

_He continued downward, skipping over Wamba’s cock, to explore his legs, his knees, his ankles. Wamba made a low, keening sound and clenched the blanket beneath him in a trembling grip when Cedric lifted his foot and placed a gentle kiss on the angry brand that marred the sole, tracing the discernible mark of his enemy. The mark on the other foot was not so clear, but he paid it equal attention before he slid back up, bringing his face level with Wamba’s. Wamba, opening dazed eyes and seeing his master, tilted his face up to him. Cedric covered the offered mouth with a soft chuckle. It seemed Wamba was very fond of kisses._

_Sinking into the kiss, Cedric lowered himself so that his weight rested on the body below him, bringing Wamba's attention to his arousal. He immediately felt the boy’s heart begin to race, its thumping echoing through Cedric’s own chest. He remained there, languorously caressing Wamba’s mouth with his own. When the boy’s heart had slowed and his quaking eased, Cedric levered himself up and stared into Wamba’s eyes, assuring that they were clear and focused on him before he guided Wamba onto his stomach. The slave obeyed the gentle direction and turned, but Cedric felt the slight hesitation in him, and murmured soft words of reassurance as he settled the boy against the blankets once more._

_“You are safe, Wamba,” he said quietly, placing a kiss on the boy’s shoulder. Wamba’s back had healed considerably since he had first come to Cedric, but the marks that remained would be with him for all of his life. The Saxon let his hands run over the innumerable scars, dropping kisses here and there, stroking from shoulder to waist, where the thin lines tapered off. He felt Wamba growing tense and dropped down to turn his attention to the slave’s thighs, littered with scars nearly as numerous as those on his back. He kissed these as well, making Wamba gasp as he followed their uneven trail back and forth, moving upward. He laid one long stroke of his tongue to the crease at the top of Wamba’s leg, then began the same treatment on the opposite leg, and listened as Wamba’s breath took on an uneven quality that had not been there before._

_Cedric waited one long, tense moment, considering, before he ran his hands up the pale flesh that he had just surveyed, slowly pushing Wamba’s legs apart as he did. He let his touch continue past where his mouth had stopped, up over the smooth skin of the boy’s rump. He repeated the caress more slowly, this time letting his hands come to rest on Wamba’s hips. Cedric firmed his grip, applying enough pressure to steady Wamba but not to frighten him, and lowered his mouth finally to the sensitive hidden place between his legs in an intimate kiss. Wamba sobbed._

_“Does that feel good, Wamba?” He pulled away for a moment, just far enough to ask, rubbing one hand soothingly over a trembling flank._

_“Yes, master,” Wamba whispered, his face flaming red and fists clenched tightly in the blankets._

_“Good.” It was profoundly satisfying to show Wamba that his body could be a source of pleasure for himself as well as others, to know that he was the one who was responsible for that pleasure. He licked his way back into the shadowed crevice, taking his time and feeling Wamba unravel beneath his hands as Cedric delved inside, taken so out of himself that he actually pushed back into the contact._

_When, at length, he decided that his investigation was complete, he pulled away with a parting kiss to Wamba’s tailbone and turned him onto his back once more to find his face streaked with tears. He also discovered an eager need had grown in Wamba, and it was to this that he now turned, placing his mouth to that last place he had yet to explore._

_Cedric had barely taken Wamba’s flesh between his lips when he heard a shocked gasp and felt frantic hands on his head. “No!” The plaintive cry rent his heart._

_He lifted his head and looked at Wamba. “Why do you refuse it?” Wamba looked back at him, his eyes reflecting a haunted fear._

_“There is no pleasure in it,” he said, “for you.”_

_It took a moment, but Cedric deciphered the meaning behind those words, and when he had, he immediately shifted upward, wrapping his arms around Wamba, catching the shaking form to his chest with a string of soft reassurances. It was a bitter thought, but he should not have assumed that because he had been told only of the rapes that Wamba had endured that they had been the extent of the abuse inflicted upon him in the years he spent in Galen’s charge._

_He turned his head to speak low into Wamba’s ear. “I take pleasure in giving you pleasure, as you have done so often for me. Let me do this for you.”_

_Wamba was still unconvinced, his eyes wet and anxious, but he did not protest further as Cedric returned to his aborted task, drawing Wamba’s sex in and stroking him in long, smooth movements. The shock had undone some of Cedric’s effort, but gradually he was able to coax Wamba back to full arousal. He did not fail to notice that Wamba held himself very still, unwilling to risk causing any discomfort to his master, but he could not contain the uncharacteristic moans that escaped his lips at the soft pressure of a tongue, the teasing brush of teeth. It struck Cedric suddenly that Wamba had almost certainly never had his pleasure from anything more tender than Cedric’s rough hand, which had helped him to climax on necessary occasions. His own selfish disregard was suddenly unbearable to Cedric. He redoubled his efforts, and the low moans became full-voiced cries of pleasure._

_It was not long before Wamba could resist the unrelenting pace no longer. His muscles seized and his fingers curled into the bedclothes as he spilled into his master’s mouth without warning. Cedric pulled away, but kept his hands on Wamba, gentling him through the aftershocks while the boy stared with dazed eyes at the ceiling. When he moved again, it was to lay his hands briefly on Cedric’s shoulders, an appeal for another kiss. Cedric responded, amused, and was surprised to find himself fully embraced, Wamba’s arms winding around his neck and legs pulling him down into tight contact with the slave’s warm body._

_The intensity of his own arousal was beginning to grow unbearable, and he knew Wamba understood when he pulled back and looked up into his master’s eyes. He released Cedric and pushed himself up to reach for the pot of oil that had taken up residence on the bed table beside the candles and snuffer. Wamba removed the fitted lid and dipped his fingers. After only a moment’s hesitation, he placed a shaking touch on Cedric’s cock, spreading the slick substance with a light touch that made the Saxon groan. Wamba placed the pot to the side, and wound his legs around Cedric’s waist again, drawing him forward. Cedric saw the gift that was being offered, and after one long look into Wamba’s eyes, finding no fear there, he took it, sliding home in one smooth thrust. The tight grip of the unprepared body made him shudder and let out a short bark of pleasure that covered Wamba’s gasp._

_He established his rhythm almost immediately, drawing back a little further at each repetition, and it was so different because, for the first time, Wamba was moving with him, angling his hips upward to meet Cedric’s thrusts, until quite suddenly his movement faltered, and he gasped. Cedric grinned despite himself, and aimed his next motion at the same spot, and the next, until full-throated cries of pleasure were being torn form Wamba at every thrust. The world went white, and when Cedric returned to his senses he found his own arms wrapped as tightly around Wamba as the boy’s were around him. The intensity of the climax had caused him to unconsciously sink his teeth into the curve of Wamba’s shoulder, marking him._

_As soon as he was able, he disengaged his body from his slave’s, and shifted to lie next to Wamba, still trying to catch his breath. Wamba, too, lay gasping and trembling, until at length he turned away from Cedric, toward the far side of the bed. Cedric’s mood instantly darkened, and he closed his eyes. But Wamba did not move to stand, only buried his face in a cushion and shuddered. Cedric gathered himself enough sit up and place a hand on Wamba’s shoulder, drawing him back so his face was revealed. His cheeks were wet with tears._

_Suddenly concerned, Cedric took the boy’s face in his hands. “Did I hurt you?”_

_Wamba sobbed and shook his head vehemently. “No. No. Thank you, master. Thank you.” His defenses shattered, he could only thank Cedric over and over, clutching his hand, kissing it, until Cedric managed to draw Wamba to him. He held the quaking boy until he calmed. Cedric reveled in the sensation of the pliant body in his arms, one hand stroking the bright head soothingly while the other wrapped firmly around his slender form._

_Reaching to brush away the tears that still escaped his eyes, Wamba whispered, “I have never kissed before.”_

_Cedric’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its slow, steady caress, as he contemplated the soft words. They were a bashful offering, spoken low against his skin. He saw, to his amazement, that there was something of innocence in Wamba still, presented now to his master with timid hope. He lifted Wamba’s chin and studied that unguarded face, unbearably charmed by the blush high across his cheeks, and smiled._

_“I thank you, then, for this most precious of gifts.” There was nothing to be done but take that offering again, pressing gently into Wamba’s mouth and savoring the eager acquiescence._

_He broke away a moment later, reminded by the talk of gifts of the one remaining assurance he had to offer Wamba. He pulled away from the boy and rose, walking nude to his table and gathering up a small knot of cloth that lay there, wholly unremarkable. He turned to find that Wamba had sat up and watched him with a somewhat misty smile. The fingertips of one hand played delicately along the bite mark Cedric had left, tracing its shape. It was clear enough that he enjoyed the claiming. It should have been obvious when Wamba refused Cedric’s offer of freedom, but somehow this quiet smile drove it home more than any number of protestations had, the satisfaction that belonging gave him._

_This bolstered his confidence as he carried his little bundle back to the bed and present it to Wamba, who reached for it hesitantly._

_“I had this made, in case it is a thing you desire.”_

_Wamba unfolded the cloth with halting fingers, glancing up at Cedric uncertainly. The object that finally fell out into his hand was a simple silver band, a ring. He picked it up carefully and turned it in his fingers, taking in the words engraved along the outer surface._

Claimed of Rotherwood

_Wamba stared at the band in his hand in disbelief._

_“I swore that I would never again place my collar upon you.” Cedric said softly, as he pressed a hand to support Wamba’s where the ring rested. “This you may wear if you choose. But wear it or no, you will always have my protection.”_

_Wamba’s eyes were wet again. “Thank you, master,” he said, sniffling a bit._

_He offered the ring to Cedric, and the Saxon was concerned that the gift had been ill-received until Wamba held out his hand, silently asking his master to place it upon him. He did, taking Wamba’s hand gently in his and threading the band onto his finger. It was too large for the ring finger, but settled naturally on its neighbor, sliding into place as though it belonged there._

_“Now you are mine,” Cedric told him, “and let none refute it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for consensual m/m sex. Wamba is 16.


	65. Epilogue

The first time Farren laid eyes on Wamba, he was bleeding, crippled and poisoned, fighting to keep his balance between two bindings that threatened to strangle his life from his throat. He was crouched trembling on his knees, his eyes shut fast and his face tight with pain and concentration. It was that silent determination, the refusal to relinquish his hold on life, even in the face of terrible agony, that first made Farren stop and stare in astonishment.

“Cut him loose and take him out of here.” It was only Ivanhoe’s voice, ordering him to the boy’s care, that roused him from the paralysis of shock and revulsion. While Ivanhoe went to secure the torturer, Farren drew his sword, noting Wamba’s flinch at the sight of it, and sliced through the ropes that bound him to the pole. The boy immediately slumped to the ground in huddled mess of wounded flesh, blinking up at him through dazed eyes. He appeared to drift for a moment, then visibly forced himself to focus on the man above him.

“Is it day?” Each choked word seemed an immense trial.

Farren thought for a moment. It was still several hours until sunset. “Yes, it is day.”

Wamba drew an audible breath, and his eyelids fluttered. “May I see?”

“Of course.” He was loath to place his hands on the quaking body, but he swallowed his horror and determined that nothing would prevent him taking the boy away from that foul prison. So he cocooned Wamba in his cloak to shield his battered limbs from the unforgiving chain mail covering Farren’s chest, before lifting him into a careful hold. The boy faded into a shivering torpor as they climbed toward the warmer air of the open world above, leaving Ivanhoe alone to question Malvoisin’s man.

It was only when he felt the touch of the sunlight that Wamba lifted his face and gave a gasp that turned into a choked sob. Farren found a clear patch of grass at the base of the tree where they had tethered the horses and settled the boy there, in the warm rays of the sun. As he pulled away, he caught a faint whisper. Farren leaned down to catch the words, realizing as he did that the boy could not make out his features.

“Thank you, Wilfred. I did not mean to be such a bother.” Farren’s heart faltered, stunned in the realization that Wamba had not expected this rescue. He had struggled to maintain his hold on life, refused to let himself die without fighting to the end of his strength without hope of deliverance.

It was in that moment that Farren knew he would protect this person as long as he had breath. “It was no trouble,” he rumbled, and tucked the cloak more closely around the quaking form, keeping watch until Ivanhoe returned to the glade and they were able to make their way back to Rotherwood. He carried Wamba himself, refusing to let any of the others share his burden.

After that day, Farren made it his task to watch over the boy. The first time he went to speak with him after their return to Rotherwood, Wamba was polite and apologetic, embarrassed by what Farren had seen and heard during the rescue, and after. He brushed it off, offering instead to serve as Wamba’s support while he learned to stand on his own legs again. Through those slow days, watching the boy recover, he gradually gained a clearer picture of who Wamba was, and discovered a growing fondness for the quick-witted young slave.

He continued to watch over Wamba once he was healed, mostly from a distance, until he was called upon to lend his support to retrieve the boy from another long captivity, and stood sentinel at the execution of the men who had betrayed him. When Wamba accepted the king’s invitation to take a role in the court, Farren won Ivanhoe’s support for his own move to the royal garrison in London, where he continued his silent guardianship, becoming Ivanhoe’s eyes and arm.

He watched Wamba sink into loneliness and slowly adapt to his new role. He quietly dissuaded those who voiced their discontent in dark corridors from acting on their violent impulses, and ensured that the solitary new magistrate received comfort when he needed it by a few words to Ivanhoe. He accompanied Wamba always when he ventured from the castle, deterring the curious and the suggestive glances with silent severity and dark menace.

He watched Wamba’s heartbreak at the death of Cedric and he watched the new closeness that grew between the quiet man and his explosive young apprentice, the pains and joys they weathered together. Despite his impulsive nature, Oscar proved himself a worthy companion for Wamba, and won Farren’s approval, though he was disinclined to voice it.

Farren’s reward for his constant vigilance was in the unspoken trust that Ivanhoe and Wamba and even young Oscar showed him. Ivanhoe never questioned his judgment where Wamba was concerned, and indeed asked for his thoughts to aid his distant perspective. Wamba never failed to ask his company for an excursion into unknown streets or known, and their quiet companionship was something he cherished.

He brought his wife to London along with him, and raised a family there in the shadow of the tower, and told his sons when they asked of the glorious crusades of his youth that he had seen many brave deeds and many fine warriors, but the greatest courage he had ever witnessed was a young, battered prisoner who had clung desperately to life for the sake of living, when there was no hope of the rescue, and any number of knights would have despaired. His wife teased him that he must be in love with his young charge, and he laughed with her, but some part of his heart had been lost that day, in a dungeon far from London, when he was charged to carry one battered soul to safety, and had been unable to relinquish his guard since.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end (at last) of the first part of this story. For the handful of you who came along for the ride, I hope you found it enjoyable. The sequel will follow shortly, picking up where Oscar and Wamba left off, and you'll see it under many of the same tags.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Well–were it not a pleasant thing  
> To fall asleep with all one’s friends;  
> To pass with all our social ties  
> To silence from the paths of men;  
> And every hundred years to rise  
> And learn the world, and sleep again;  
> To sleep thro’ terms of mighty wars,  
> And wake on science grown to more,  
> On secrets of the brain, the stars,  
> As wild as aught of fairy lore;  
> And all that else the years will show,  
> The Poet-forms of stronger hours,  
> The vast Republics that may grow,  
> The Federations and the Powers;  
> Titanic forces taking birth  
> In divers seasons, divers climes;  
> For we are Ancients of the earth,  
> And in the morning of the times.
> 
> The Day-Dream  
> by Lord Alfred Tennyson

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A King's Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738923) by [BlueRaven (Blue_Night)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Night/pseuds/BlueRaven)
  * [The Lord And The Teacher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564566) by [Blue_Night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Night/pseuds/Blue_Night)




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